


Not Afraid

by GalacticNerd



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Cute, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gay, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-20 09:57:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 40,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12430374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalacticNerd/pseuds/GalacticNerd
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, best friends since the dawn of time.But now they are about to meet their match.Love.This takes place after the events at Sherinford and deals with murder, love, the return of someone rather fabulous, hospitals, cold water and Christmas.Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters. This is a Johnlock fanfiction, taken both from BBC's Sherlock and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's original Sherlock Holmes stories. Please enjoy!





	1. Nightmares

Pressed against a canvas sky painted with dusty grey clouds, his coat whipping in the wind and tiny snowflakes tumbling from the heavens to swirl around him, Sherlock stood on the very edge of the hospital roof, a smudge of black against the white, as fragile and fleeting as a leaf caught in a storm. John's heart was thundering harder than it ever had, harder than when the bullet from the Afghan gun tore through his shoulder. It rattled in his chest, fighting against his ribcage and screaming to be free. The pure fear that he felt was unlike anything he had ever experienced. It set an icy fire to his bones and his legs trembled as he held his phone to his ear, staring up at his best friend who stood atop the hospital roof, speaking of notes and apologies.

"Goodbye, John," Sherlock's voice crackled through the phone, strained and breaking, as if he was supressing a world of emotions. He had never sounded so raw and honest before, always throwing up a sheer façade of clinical analysis to ward of human error.

"No, don't," John heard himself say but most of his words were drowned by the thrumming of blood in his ears. However, something told him that it wouldn't stop Sherlock. It was more of a sound of regret, a plea with himself. His whole body shook, Sherlock not the only leaf caught in the storm that was Moriarty. John took the phone away from his ear; it felt like it was burning into his skull, and then, just as he saw Sherlock begin to tilt forwards, over the lip of the roof, he screamed," Sherlock!"

But it was too late. Much too late. Sherlock was falling, tumbling through the air and John could do nothing but watch in perfect terror as his friend hurtled towards the ground. His mouth dropped open in horror and his heart plummeted into his shoes. The bitter wind whipped his hair and he couldn't comprehend the world. He started forwards, legs bumping into each other, limbs unresponsive with shock and suddenly he too was falling, something having crashed into him and the ground rushed up to meet him in a swirl of black and grey melting together.

John sat bolt upright in bed, clenched fists gripping the bedsheets and sweat pouring from his face to soak into his pale tee-shirt. His breaths came in short, sharp bursts as if he had been running hard for a long time. Just a dream. It was just a dream. John exhaled deeply and checked his wristwatch. 5:47am. Knowing he would never get back to sleep now, he swung his legs out of bed, setting his bare feet on the floor and glancing instinctively over at the cot which sat in the corner of his room. Rosie slept soundly and John envied her for that. He stood, running his hands through his hair before crossing the room to glance at his sleeping daughter. Bundled up among her soft blankets and surrounded by multitudes of soft toys gifted by well-meaning friends, it was almost difficult to actually see the baby. Her blonde hair was tangled and curling around her head like a small halo against the pillow and her tiny thumb was tucked into her mouth, bow lips parting to let it in. The rest of her was obscured by plush, apart from her tubby little feet, poking out from the ocean of blankets. She looked like Mary though Mrs Hudson had said she had inherited John's eyes. John couldn't see it himself but then again, he wasn't one to stare deeply at his own reflection. Smiling fondly at Rosie, he rearranged her blankets so they covered her little feet and left the room, heading downstairs and into the kitchen where Sherlock had abandoned some experiment involving nitric acid, fingernails and chalk. Rolling his eyes, John swung the fridge door open to fetch an apple.

"Jesus!" he hissed, trying to contain his alarm so he didn't wake Rosie or Sherlock. Four dismembered hands sat on metal dishes in the middle shelf of the fridge where the veggies were supposed to go. "Heads, hands, what next? Arses?"

John grabbed an apple from the bottom shelf, briefly wondering if the hands would have tainted the fruit and closed the fridge door with a snap. He shook his head, somewhat despairingly, and bit into the apple anyway. It wouldn't have been the worst thing to happen to something he had wanted to consume. John tugged the waistband of his pyjama pants higher on his hips and padded into the lounge, throwing himself into his chair with a deep sigh. Why was he still dreaming about Sherlock's swan dive from the roof of Bart's Hospital? That was so long ago and anyway, Sherlock had faked the whole thing and was perfectly safe and well. So why did it still bother John? He took another bite of his apple and stared into the fireplace where hot coals still glowed, weakly fighting off the winter chill that seeped into the flat. He supposed he should stoke it up. After placing his apple on the arm of his chair, he knelt in front of the fire and poked at the coals with the fire poker. Then he put some kindling over the coals and blew gently at the glowing orange, encouraging flames to splutter into life and lick the kindling. Another huff of air and fire engulfed all the kindling with delight. John sat back on his heels and watched the fire with satisfaction. He loved keeping the fire going, for some reason. His therapist would tell him that it was something to do with sustaining life and energy and it being a coping mechanism for grieving for Mary but John reckoned he just liked warmth and comfort and a fire offered that. Not to mention that when Sherlock got up and asked how the flat stayed so warm overnight, John could smirk at him and feel like he had one upped the genius.

Back in his chair, now with his feet propped up on a footstool in front of the blazing fire, John finished his apple and tossed the core into the flames. It sat for a moment on a chunk of wood before it was devoured.

"John?"

He whipped his head round to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, eyes bleary and pyjamas rumpled. His hair lay in messy curls and he looked confused which wasn't a look Sherlock wore very often.

"You're up early," John remarked. "Did I wake you up?"

Sherlock mumbled something incoherent and stumbled into the kitchen, bumping into the stack of books he'd left there from the night before. John couldn't help but smile. Sherlock could be a right pain in the ass but, none the less, he was John's pain in the ass, hands in the fridge and all.

"Seriously though, did I wake you up?" John asked over his shoulder as Sherlock clattered with the kettle and a teacup.

"Yes," Sherlock groused, clearly only able to handle single word sentences at the current time.

"Sorry," John said and suddenly, from upstairs, he heard crying. Rosie was awake. Inhaling deeply, John rose from his chair and padded upstairs, into his room where Rosie was gripping her favourite teddy bear and bawling as if her life depended on it. Mouth wide open, tears flowing down her rosy cheeks, eyes glazed with water and dribble everywhere.

"There, there, Rosie darling, daddy's here," John cooed, reaching into the cot and plucking Rosie from her swaddle of blankets. "Don't you cry now, daddy'll get you a bottle and everything will be just fine and dandy."

John hoisted Rosie to his shoulder and, patting her back gently, carried her back downstairs and into the kitchen where Sherlock was trying (and failing) to find the tea leaves.

"I know I put them somewhere," he mumbled, flinging open cupboards and tossing aside sheets of paper with random scribbles on them. He was rather like a small cyclone whirling through the kitchen in mild distress. "John, where's the tea?"

"By the jar of apricot jam, top cupboard, to your left," John said, rolling his eyes and, with one hand, making Rosie's bottle. She had stopped crying now and instead sucked on the ear of her teddy bear, watching Sherlock with avid fascination as he riffled around the kitchen, still unable to find the tea. He darted around the box of test tubes he had pinched from Bart's Hospital and then stopped, throwing his hands into the air.

"I can't find it," he announced dramatically, as if the world might be ending.

"You didn't look properly," John told him in a tone his mother might have used and opened a cupboard beside him at head height, pulling out the tealeaves and handing them to Sherlock who took them and peered at the tin. He made a coughing sound in his throat and then started making tea while John, laughing a little under his breath, took Rosie and her bottle to his chair by the fire and slid the teat between Rosie's teeth. She took right away and drank happily, a look of baby bliss on her round features; eyes closed lightly and mouth turned upwards while still managing to be closed around the teat. Adorable. She was adorable, John thought, holding the bottle gently and cradling her in his arms. After a while, Sherlock swept into the sitting room and, after placing his cup of tea on the small table that sat between his chair and the fireplace, he threw himself into the chair and tossed his head back, staring at the ceiling.

"What were you dreaming about?" he asked, still examining the ceiling. John blinked, caught unawares.

"Pardon?" he said. Rosie had fallen asleep all of a sudden, as babies are want to do, so he eased the bottle from her mouth, placed it on the floor beside him and cuddled her closer to his chest as she snuffled a little.

"I said," Sherlock said, lowering his gaze so he could make eye contact. "What were you dreaming about that caused you to rise at some ungodly hour of the morning?"

John didn't even bother asking how Sherlock knew he had woken because of his dreams. There were many things he didn't bother asking nowadays; he knew Sherlock would tell him anyway. He considered the question. It was stupid, the dream. There was no reason why he would still be having nightmares about the time Sherlock appeared to have committed suicide. "You taking a swan dive off the roof of Bart's."

Sherlock frowned, eyeing John as if he had said something utterly absurd. "But that was years ago!"

"I know," John shrugged. "I don't get it either."

Sherlock was silent for quite some time and John knew he was turning the events over in his mind, analysing them like he always did. Rosie looked as though she wasn't going to be waking up soon so John left Sherlock to his thinking and carried Rosie carefully back to her cot, laying her among her blankets and covering her so she stayed warm. He tucked her teddy bear in beside her and just watched her sleep for a while. Yes, she looked like Mary. John closed his eyes for a moment, seeing Mary in his mind's eye, telling him to just get over it. He opened his eyes and left the room, checking his watch again. It was still much too early to even think about doing anything remotely productive so he headed back into the sitting room, grabbed his laptop and plonked himself back in his chair. Sherlock was still thinking, his fingers steepled under his chin and his eyes closed. John opened his laptop and jumped online to check his blog. His most recent account (The Stick Man and The Gallows) had had several thousand views already, even though they'd only just wrapped up the case the other day with Sherlock telling John he had solved it days ago, when really it had taken him longer that the last few. He smiled, satisfied. Despite everything that had happened in the last year or so, his blog and the duo's crime solving antics were still going strong. As he closed the laptop lid, he glanced over at Sherlock who was still thinking. There was something about him, John mused, tucking his laptop under his chair, something that had made John really look at him these past months. He'd found himself looking at Sherlock Holmes in a way he'd never looked at him before. Appreciation? Well, he already knew the man was a genius. At that moment, Sherlock's eyes flew open and he sat up very straight, very alert.

"John," he said in a tone of urgency. "I'm going out."

John, still mildly startled that Sherlock had suddenly burst from his thinking space, blinked several times. "Out? Why? Where?"

"As ever, John, you fail to form a coherent sentence," Sherlock chastened but John knew he was only saying it lightly, jesting. "I need to check something."

With that, he was gone, flying from the flat in a flurry of coats, scarves and childish vigour. John didn't bother racing after him; he'd get a text if Sherlock wanted him to come and help. He'd become used to that in the years that they had been best friends. Best friends. It was an interesting term, really. You had friends and then you had...best friends. John wondered if Sherlock knew the difference. Then he wondered if he himself knew the difference.

Over the course of the early morning, John bustled around playing with Rosie (this involved making goo-goo sounds, throwing teddies in the air, laughing, blowing raspberries on her stomach and mussing up his hair for her to tug), making breakfast (French toast with bacon and banana for Rosie and oats with milk and yoghurt for John), sewing the ear back onto Rosie's favourite teddy bear that had been a gift from Lestrade, washing up, keeping the fire going and waiting for either a text from Sherlock or for him to return. It seemed his life revolved around that man. Well, and Rosie, of course.

"John?"

Much to John's disappointment, it wasn't Sherlock calling. He slid the glass he was drying away in the cupboard and slung the tea towel over his shoulder, cringing slightly as the damp material soaked a dark patch into the back of his shirt. Mrs Hudson poked her nose into the kitchen, her well-meaning face creased with worry. She looked as if she had been crying.

"Mrs Hudson," John said in mild alarm. Mrs Hudson didn't cry all that much, and when she did, it meant something was wrong. So, he asked a question which could pretty much ask itself in this situation. "What's wrong?"

Mrs Hudson twisted her hands together, seeming unable to speak. Very concerned now, John crossed the room to her and placed his hands on her shoulders, looking her in the eyes, checking for duress, anxiety or drug use. He knew she had some medicinal marijuana in her kitchen somewhere and while he didn't condone the use of it, he knew she took it sometimes and hadn't dared to reprimand her for it. But there was none of that in her eyes. Just worry.

"Mrs Hudson," John said again. "What is it?"

Finally, Mrs Hudson opened her mouth. Her voice came out creaky and upset. "Oh John," she said, fresh tears welling up in her eyes. "Haven't you heard?"

"Heard what?" John asked, baffled.

"The fight!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed. She ducked out from John's grip and snatched his arm, dragging him to the window and yanking open the curtain. John tripped over his feet after her, trying not to protest too much. Dim, winter light poured into the flat and John blinked the afterimage from his eyes. Once his vision had cleared, he was able to see two men on the street below, standing several feet apart and clearing yelling at the tops of their lungs. From his elevated position, John could just make out that Sherlock was one of the men standing in the middle of the road. They were holding up traffic and several people had got out of their cars to shake their fists and join in the yelling. Wondering what on earth Sherlock and this other man who looked suspiciously like Mycroft were standing in the middle of the street fighting about, John popped open the window to let the sound in. Unfortunately, the winter wind whipped their voices away so John couldn't make out anything except the anger in their tones.

"Mrs Hudson, can you keep an eye on Rosie, please?" John turned from the window and Mrs Hudson nodded. Rosie was lying on a purple playmat in the middle of the floor, chewing on a rattle and dribbling everywhere. John dashed from the flat after glancing at Rosie as he always did before leaving her in someone else's hands. But when Mycroft and Sherlock fought, things that people would rather not see nor hear tended to happen. John didn't think the privacy of the whole nation ought to be broadcast on the snowy lane of Baker Street. He hurried down the stairs and eased open the front door, not wanting to let either Mycroft or Sherlock know he was listening in. He peered around the door and suddenly, he was able to hear the conversation, clear as day.

"...always been afraid, Sherlock!" Mycroft was saying in his condescending tone which really got Sherlock riled up. It always did. Mycroft was standing quite still, his umbrella tip on the ground and his hands clasped over each other on the curved handle.

"Afraid?!" Sherlock countered furiously. He threw his hands into the air. "I don't suppose you helped much with that one!"

Mycroft moved closer to Sherlock and lowered his voice a little. "You cannot blame it all on me. You made you like this, as I recall you saying once."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, his gaze on the snowy ground. Then he looked up and even from the sideways profile John had of him, he could see Sherlock was absolutely wild. And...terribly sad. "I made me like this because that's who you were. I idolized you, even though I hated you. You knew how to deal with what we are, you were detached so I had to become detached to be like you, to cope!"

"Oh Sherlock," Mycroft reached out to touch Sherlock with a single hand, but Sherlock jerked away, flinching his body backwards. "You should never have wanted to be anything like me."

And suddenly both men were broken, Sherlock sagging a little and Mycroft walking backwards, shoes sifting snow behind him. John, gripping the doorframe very tightly, had no idea what was going on but Sherlock was close to snapping. Close to collapsing in the middle of the street. His heart hurt for him. Moments away from bursting onto the street and fetching Sherlock, John watched as Mycroft looked at Sherlock one more time before turning away and climbing into his car. Sherlock was very still as the car drove away and the traffic wound around him, horns honking and people yelling out of their windows. But Sherlock just stood there, oblivious, as the world rushed around him. His shoulders slumped, pale snow gathered in his dark curls and his suit was rumpled. Without another thought, John shoved open the door properly and dashed out onto the street, hardly feeling the chill of the snow on his bare feet. Ordinarily, he'd have been hopping over the ground, hissing and swearing but he was not feeling ordinary right now.

"Sherlock?" he said, reaching the other man. Sherlock didn't respond so John took his arm and lead him through the traffic. For the first time, Sherlock didn't twist in his grip, didn't protest to being touched. Instead, he followed John like a child, back into the house, up the stairs and into the flat. John took him to his chair and sat him down. Sherlock's face was blank though his eyes were filled with emotion. He stared at the same place on the wall, completely still. Mrs Hudson stood by John's shoulder as he watched Sherlock watching the wall.

"I'll go," she whispered and John hardly nodded. Something was wrong with Sherlock, terribly wrong and John needed to know what it was. Mrs Hudson's feet creaked on the floor as she left and it sounded very loud. Even Rosie was uncharacteristically quiet.

"Sherlock?" John asked in a low voice. "Sherlock, what's wrong?"

Silence. John eased himself into his chair opposite Sherlock's and eyed his friend. Sherlock was still staring in exactly the same place. His jaw had tightened somewhat and his eyes were rimmed with red.

"Sherlock, talk to me," John pleaded, leaning forwards and balancing his elbows on his knees. But Sherlock remained unmoving and refusing to speak. It was as if he was deep inside his mind palace with his eyes wide open. He was unreachable in there. But John had never seen him like this and it worried him greatly. He slid off his chair so he knelt in front of Sherlock, grabbing the man's slender hands and holding them.

"Sherlock, what happened?" John's voice was soft, trying to ease Sherlock from his dazed state of mind. "Goddamn it Sherlock!"

Still Sherlock remained silent and John gave up, releasing Sherlock's hands and standing up in anger. Something was wrong but he had no idea what and Sherlock wasn't letting on. John began pacing, recalling the conversation on the snow drenched street. Mycroft had accused Sherlock of being afraid of something and Sherlock had told him that it was because he'd tried to be him. But what was Sherlock so afraid of? What made him fall into a trance that John couldn't get him to come out of?

Rosie began to cry, unimpressed by the lack of attention and possibly because she was hungry so John leaned down to pick her up. She stopped crying instantly and snuggled into his arms with a great yawn. Tired, then. John patted her back gently and continued pacing, trying to figure it out. But he wasn't Sherlock Holmes. He didn't have a brilliant deducing mind. He was plain old John Watson, ex-army doctor and a veteran of more than one kind of war. Once Rosie was happily sleeping, John installed her in the little nest of blankets near the fire that he'd made once he discovered she preferred sleeping in the sitting room during the day and then stood by the window, looking out over the street. Snow swirled from the gloomy sky, blanketing the world outside and creating a paper white city. Sherlock couldn't stay like that forever, he reasoned. But all the same, it worried him. That settled it. He had no other choice. It grated him though, knowing what he was about to do. He crossed the room to the kitchen bench and snatched up his phone. He scrolled through his rather short contacts list and found Mycroft's number. His thumb hovered over the call button as he considered his options. But what option did he have, really? He touched the call button and brought the phone to his ear. The ringtone played for a moment before cutting to Mycroft's answer phone which was curt, clinical and not very conversation inspiring. John wondered if he ought to leave a message. As the answerphone ran to an end, John peeked at Sherlock who was still in precisely the same position that he had been the moment John had sat him down. Yes, he'd leave a message. What choice did he have?

"Mycroft, it's John. Call me as soon as you get this."

He hung up, placed his phone back on the kitchen bench and headed into the sitting room to stand in front of the fire, watching Sherlock. His feet were finally beginning to gain some feeling, stinging immensely, the heat of the fire driving away the chill caused by the snow. By now, he knew it was pointless to try and talk to Sherlock so he just watched, finding himself observing the tightness of the other man's jaw, the way his hair curled over his pale forehead and the sculpted style of his cheeks. The way his cheekbones stood out like they always had. John was pretty sure most men didn't look at other men that way but he was past caring what other men did. Other men also didn't flat share with high functioning sociopaths who solved crimes as an alternative to getting high, marry ex-assassins, father a child without its mother and get involved in all sorts of high profile criminal cases with said high functioning sociopath. John sighed. When it was put like that, his life sounded like one hell of a crazy ride. To be honest, it had been, right from the moment he met up with Mike and talked about flat shares. Actually, he thought, revise that. His life had been crazy the moment he put on his soldier's medic uniform and marched into Afghanistan.


	2. An Admission

Sherlock still hadn't moved late into the evening and by now, John was past worrying. He was downright terrified. Mycroft hadn't returned his call, Mrs Hudson had delivered roast pork for dinner which was one of Sherlock's favourites when he wasn't working, Rosie was tucked up in her cot and sleeping soundly and John was pacing in front of the window again. Something had to be done. He strode over to the kitchen and picked up his phone, intent on ringing Mycroft over and over again until the pompous prick picked up.

"Mycroft, you pick up your phone right now, you understand?" John left the second message of the day. Then he rang again, leaving a slightly angrier message. Then again, with some very curt words that he wouldn't dare say in front of Mrs Hudson. Then again, just telling Mycroft that he'd damn well walk to the Diogenes Club and shout until someone came. Then-

"Will you ever run out of credit?"

"Mycroft," John said, never feeling so relieved to hear his voice. It was curt as always and carried frustration and a higher intelligence that John found most irritating.

"What do you want, John?" Mycroft also sounded tired.

"It's about Sherlock. What the hell did you say to him today?" John asked in an even tone which he thought was admirable, given that he'd really have liked to punch Mycroft in the face.

"Why?"

John paused a moment, taking a deep breath. "You know why. You know your brother better than anyone."

"Lately," Mycroft said quietly, "I'm not so sure that's entirely true."

"What's that supposed to mean?" John demanded, attempting to keep his temper in check. "Now you listen to me, Mycroft Holmes, you said something to Sherlock and he's been in some kind of trance for the entire day and I have no idea what to do. He won't talk, he won't move, he won't even blink. It's like he's lost himself in his damn mind palace with his eyes wide open and it's because you said something to him, NOW WHAT DID YOU SAY?!"

John sucked in air, not meaning to have shouted. His voice echoed for a moment in the kitchen, leaving a hollow sound behind it. But Mycroft seemed shocked into silence. All John could hear was his uneven breathing crackling over the phoneline. It hissed and clicked for several seconds before Mycroft replied.

"Tell him I'm sorry."

John could hardly believe his ears. That was it? In a very furious and low tone with his teeth almost gritted, he snarled, "Tell him what?"

"You heard me, Doctor Watson," Mycroft said quietly and hung up. After staring at the screen (call disconnected) for a second, John hurled his phone across the room where it slammed into the fridge and fell to the floor with a crash, cracking the screen and popping the back off, revealing the battery.

"What's going on?" Mrs Hudson's timid voice came from the door into the kitchen and John turned, still feeling very angry, to see her standing in the doorway, face a picture of worry.

"Never you mind," John snapped, immediately regretting his words. He had no right to speak to Mrs Hudson like that, he knew it well, but the damage was done. Mrs Hudson took the hint and scuttled, leaving John feeling guilty and wrong. He glared at a rack of test tubes on the bench before entering the sitting room again and throwing himself into his chair with a great sigh, looking at Sherlock.

"Sherlock," John said, keeping his voice steady and low. "Sherlock, I don't know what to do. Okay? Uh..." he paused, unsure of what to say. Then he gritted his teeth. "Mycroft says he's sorry."

There was a brief moment where John just hated everything in the entire universe in a single heartbeat. Everything from this room to Mycroft to London to the far reaches of the galaxy. No one said life was going to be easy, and John liked it that way. He didn't want to live a boring, easy life. But he also wished that sometimes, the world would actually be on his side for once. And then the bitter thoughts were gone and there was a soft sound from his companion.

"He...said...he's...sorry?" Sherlock spoke haltingly, his voice cracked and husky from disuse. John could have jumped for joy right then. He'd never been so glad to hear the baritone cadences from his friend before. Well, that wasn't strictly true but...

"Yeah," John said. "Yeah, he said to tell you that he was sorry."

Sherlock blinked, water leaking from his eyes as they tried to moisten again after spending so long wide open. His face contorted for a moment, head cocking to one side. John wondered if he was rather like a computer re-booting. Sherlock would probably describe it that way. His hard drive kicking back into gear and all that.

"He said sorry?" Sherlock asked. He stretched his arms above his head and then looked right at John, something dark flickering across his face. "My brother apologized?"

"Yep," John nodded. "Not a lavish apology, mind you. But an apology none the less."

Sherlock clasped his hands together and then looked down at them as if seeing them for the first time. He examined his fingers and John couldn't help thinking back to when he'd held them.

"Sherlock?" John said.

"Mmm?" Sherlock seemed distracted, turning his hands over to stare at the palms, one index finger tracing the creases in his pale skin.

"Sherlock, what did he say to you?"

"Who?" Sherlock looked up, expression vague.

"Your brother, what did he say to you on the street?" John ran a hand through his hair and then over his chin, feeling the stubble he had planned on shaving but had been a little too distracted to get around to doing.

"Oh...nothing much," Sherlock began to rise from his chair but John wasn't having it. He hadn't been sick with worry pretty much all day just to hear that it had been 'nothing much'.

"Sit down," he growled, with surprising ferocity. It must have stunned Sherlock a little because the man who never did anything anyone told him to sat back down right away and stared at John in surprise, eyebrows drawn together and forehead creasing. "Now, you tell me what he said. He must have said something pretty damn serious. I've never seen you like that before. You had me worried sick, okay? So, tell me what he said!"

Sherlock considered him, his blue eyes assessing. They weren't perfectly blue, John noticed. They were...well...the colour of a storm over an ocean. Layers of electric blues, navy blues, slight grey's, forest greens, autumn greens and flecks of hazel, all blending and melting together to create an almost blue. When Sherlock next spoke, he spoke in a very careful, very concise and deep tone which John associated with bad news and upset feelings.

"I...asked him about love," Sherlock said and stopped, seeming no longer able to look at John, instead focussing on the wall behind John, his eyes flickering, rather like an old fire, the last flames reaching out in desperation from the coals, searching for new fuel.

"You what?" John frowned, confused. "You asked him about...love? Why?"

"Yes, John. Love," Sherlock's gaze flew back to John, irritated now. He began speaking swiftly, in a manner John was more accustomed to. "I spoke to my brother about love. He, in turn, told me that I feared it after Eurus murdered Victor. I feared love. Refused to feel it. Tried to cope with not just Victor but with who I was. I had become him. But..." Sherlock paused, agitated and drumming his long fingers on the leather arms of his chair. "I feel."

John didn't know what to say. His mouth opened and closed several times and he swallowed hard. It wasn't making sense. Why would Sherlock consult Mycroft about love? And, anyway, why was love bothering him now? He'd always stated he was divorced from emotions, married to only his work. The closest he'd ever come to loving someone was when he met Irene Adler and John knew he'd pined for her. But...he hadn't mentioned her, hadn't texted her ever again after they talked about it a while ago. And Irene hadn't texted Sherlock either. John didn't know why she had suddenly stopped texting. Maybe she was tired of waiting for the man who never loved. And yet...

"I don't understand," John said finally, voice unsure of itself. Sherlock drew himself from his chair like a telescope unfolding itself, long limbs flicking out and into position, and began pacing, clearly stressed and upset. His whole body was taut like a tightly coiled spring, ready to release at any moment.

"I've never felt this before, never! Not even with the Woman. It's not the same! I don't understand. I don't understand and I hate not understanding! I went to Mycroft, hoping he might understand but he told me I was afraid. Afraid of it! Maybe I am. Maybe I'm not. But I am capable, yes, I am. And John," Sherlock whirled around to face John who was sitting in his chair, baffled. "John, I feel!"

"You...feel...what?" John spread his hands in front of him to illustrate his confusion. Sherlock looked even more upset, even more stressed, yet John didn't know why.

"Love," Sherlock spoke the word clearly, angrily and concisely, as if it were an enemy he was finally facing after years of running. And perhaps he was. Love was something Sherlock had never professed to feel, never said he understood. Sherlock, in John's knowledge, had never willingly loved another human being the way John had loved Mary. This didn't look willing either but, never the less, it was happening, it seemed.

"Love," John repeated. "You're in love?"

"It appears that way," Sherlock replied, pacing in front of the window with his back to John again, seeming unable to look at him.

"You spent the entire day in a trance because you realized you were in love?" John was beginning to get angry again. He almost couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"No," Sherlock countered, stopping right in front of the window so he was illuminated by the lights in front of the glass, his back to John. "I spent the entire day in a trance, as you so poetically put it, because I realized who I was in love with."

"And?" John raised his eyebrows. "Who's that?"

Sherlock said nothing, still facing the window. His shoulders slumped over and his back curved slightly. John knew he was more upset than he'd ever been but if he didn't know why, how could he help? Still sitting in his chair, John kept watching Sherlock. Finally, Sherlock turned around slowly, his face a pale oval of sadness. His eyes were bloodshot and full of sorrow while his mouth was clenched shut, a tight, white line, lips pressed out of existence.

"It will never come to anything so it does not matter," he said in a husky, cracked sort of way.

"That's not true," John protested. "Just because it's...unrequited? Just because it's unrequited, doesn't mean it doesn't matter!"

"Oh but it does," Sherlock replied sadly. "Goodnight, John."

With that, Sherlock strode from the sitting room, into his bedroom and closed the door with a snap, leaving John feeling very wrong footed and mightily baffled in his armchair by the fire. There was no point hammering on his door and demanding answers; he'd probably get yelled at or a bullet hole in the wall for his troubles. So, after heaving a deep sigh of frustration, John rose and went to bed.


	3. A Case For John

John, as it transpired, did not sleep a wink all night. Instead, he lay, wide awake, tossing and turning and mulling over the happenings of the day and trying to figure out why Sherlock was being so secretive and vague. And why on earth he was suddenly concerned about love, as trivial as it was in his 'considered opinion'. John didn't understand, he didn't understand at all. Maybe he really should put it on a tee-shirt. Mary would approve.

 

It was many hours before the sun began to rise and John was incredibly tired, yet his mind refused to let him sleep. He tried to see the positive side; at least he wasn't having nightmares about Sherlock's death. A small reprieve, a tiny island in the middle of a never ending ocean. He crawled out of bed, eyes drooping and feeling like he'd been put through a mincer. He checked on Rosie who was, mercifully, still sleeping before stumbling downstairs to the kitchen. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, and right at that moment, John was glad. He didn't like that he was glad but the fact remained, he didn't think he would be able to maintain a friendly and caring persona whilst feeling as crappy as he did.

 

Curled up in his armchair by the fire and dressed now, John was thinking again. Not in the ordered, carefully planned out manner in which Sherlock did, but in the very erratic, muddled up and confusing way he was accustomed to. Rosie had fallen asleep in his arms, having had a bottle of milk and some time to chew on a toy rabbit, and he was hypnotically rubbing her back so she stayed soothed and asleep. Of course, he was thinking about Sherlock. Where was the sociopath? What was his problem? And why in the name of GOD DID HE HAVE TO BE SO FRUSTRATING?! John couldn't answer a single one of these questions so he gave up thinking about them and started thinking about the kind of human being Rosie was going to turn out to be. This didn't help his overall state of concern though. He was worried, as any parent is, about his daughter but he reckoned he had slightly more cause to panic a little. Rosie didn't exactly have a stable family life and John always felt guilty about it. He didn't know if he was doing right by her, though he had the support of Mrs Hudson, Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade.

 

Without warning, and as if summoned by thought alone, someone knocked on the door and Greg Lestrade himself strode in with a cheery hello.

 

"Greg," John greeted quietly, nodding at a sleeping Rosie. Greg instantly looked apologetic and lowered the volume of his normally cheerful and somewhat sometimes abrasive voice.

 

"Hi John," he said, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. "Sherlock around?"

 

"No," John said bluntly. "I don't know where the prick has gone."

 

"Oh, okay," said Greg. Then he said, "Everything okay? You know...between you two?"

 

John eyed him. "Wouldn't have a clue. Honestly? Something's up but he won't tell me."

 

Greg was quiet and John felt like a real dick. He was pissed off, taking it out on Greg and Greg just didn't deserve that, not after everything he had done for John over the years they'd known each other.

 

"I'm sorry," he said after a few more moments of feeling bad. "What's going on?"

 

"Well," Greg said, shaking off John's apology like he understood. He probably did, John mused; Greg had been working with Sherlock before John came into the picture. "There's case that's got us baffled. We'd hoped Sherlock would take a look but..."

 

The man trailed off delicately, rubbing his chin. John could almost hear Sherlock telling them both that he wasn't surprised that the case had Scotland Yard baffled. He could also imagine the look Sherlock would shoot at John. A 'can-you-possibly-believe-it?' look with very sarcastic intent.

 

"I'll have a look," John decided, extremely spur of the moment. He needed to get out of the flat and really needed some fresh air. Greg looked almost doubtful for a moment but John climbed to his feet. Just as he was debating the ethics of taking Rosie with him in his head, Mrs Hudson poked her nose in.

 

"Ooo-ooo," she greeted in her overly cheerful manner. "Are you going out, John?"

 

"Yes, Mrs Hudson, I am," John said decidedly. Mrs Hudson looked pleased, as if she had been hoping John might spur himself into action instead of moping around the flat all day.

 

"Would you like me to take care of Rosie, dear?" she asked, entering the flat and patting Greg fondly on the arm as a greeting. He nodded politely at her, returning the gesture.

 

"Mrs Hudson, you are a star," John smiled gratefully and handed Rosie over. "She's just had a bottle not too long ago and I reckon she'll sleep a while longer. If she gets too difficult, just text me."

 

"Oh, I'm sure we'll be fine, dearie," Mrs Hudson reassured John, cradling Rosie. She kissed Rosie's little forehead tenderly. "She's a real bundle of joy, John. I hope you know that."

 

"I do, Mrs Hudson, I do," John nodded, fetching his jacket from the back of the door and slinging it over his shoulders. "Thank you."

 

Mrs Hudson bustled from the flat, taking Rosie and a couple of blankets with her. John knotted his scarf around his neck and followed Greg from the flat. Unlike Sherlock, he didn't have an aversion to traveling in a police car to a crime scene so he climbed into the passenger seat and Greg pulled out into the traffic.

 

"So. What's the case?" John asked as they wove their way through the hustle and bustle of London.

 

"Well, it's odd," Greg began, his tone sobering. "That's why I thought Sherlock might be interested. It's not murder. It's some really odd robbery."

 

"Robbery?" John asked, raising his eyebrows. Sherlock didn't normally take up robberies. Apparently, they were too boring, though John didn't think the victims considered them boring.

 

"Yeah," Greg said. "The way in which it was done is the strange bit. Thought it'd give Sherlock a buzz."

 

"Well, he's not here," John spoke almost bitterly and Greg shot him a look before continuing with his narrative.

 

"An elderly couple called in the robbery early this morning. Reckoned it was the local gang who've been causing a bit of trouble these past few weeks. Apparently, the goods that were taken were not overly valuable in terms of price but they meant a lot to the couple."

 

"Which begs the question: why did they get stolen?" John concluded. "You said the way it was done was strange?"

 

"Well, the thing is, there was no sign of a break in, no sign of anything ever happening in the house apart from the theft of the goods," Greg twiddled the steering wheel so they changed lanes. Several horns honked in irritation behind them but Greg ignored it.

 

"What were the goods?" John asked, taking out his notebook and pen, ready to jot down some notes.

 

"We're not entirely sure," Greg told him.

 

"What?" John looked up, frowning.

 

"Yeah, the couple aren't the most 'there' pair of people we've ever dealt with. If you ask me, they really ought to be in a rest home or something. They said that the items were small, made of wood and a gift from 'someone special'. They couldn't afford to lose them, apparently," Greg explained. John's curiosity was piqued. He knew Sherlock would be interested now, asking lots of questions that John wouldn't think to ask in a million years. He figured he'd just have to poke around, check things out and maybe, the years of spending time with Sherlock Holmes would serve him well, though he doubted it. He always failed to notice the things Sherlock saw right through.

 

They pulled up outside a residential looking home just out of central London where the flowerbeds were poorly maintained and the grass was dead, covered in snow and unloved. Greg turned the car off and they both climbed out, boots crunching on the snow covered gravel. John tightened his coat and followed Greg up the path to the front door. As Greg knocked, John fished his phone from his pocket. He'd put it back together early this morning, the collision with the fridge thankfully only putting a few cracks in the screen and leaving it readable. He squinted as he sent Sherlock a brief text.

 

"Case: missing items, old couple, 34 Jason Street, come along if you're finished being a drama queen."

 

Then he tucked his phone into his pocket and turned to face the door which was now open and an old man stood there, looking slightly confused at the police presence. Greg was trying to explain that he'd been here earlier and was inquiring about the missing items. John noticed right away that the man had some muscular disease or irregularity; his hands were shaking and he looked unsteady on his feet. Concerned that the man might topple over, John leaned closer to Greg and whispered, "He needs to sit down."

 

"Right," Greg said under his breath. "Mr Hall? May we come in?"

 

After some indecision, Mr Hall stepped to one side to allow them in. John followed Greg and glanced back in time to see Mr Hall peer outside and glance about furtively before closing the door. They were ushered into a stuffy sitting room where a woman who John presumed was Mrs Hall sat in a plump armchair by the fire which was hardly going. The winter chill had seeped into every nook and cranny of the place and John shivered. This wasn't really a place in which people of their age should be, John thought. Mrs Hall was visibly quivering too, which John thought was curious. It wasn't a shiver of cold though. Both had the same condition? It was statistically unlikely and John was beginning to suspect something. Maybe his time spent with Sherlock had been rubbing off on him after all. Speaking of which, there was no reply from Sherlock yet, which was unusual. Sherlock always texted back these days.

 

"Can we help you?" Mrs Hall asked, her voice as unstable as her body.

 

"Uh, yes," John said hastily, taking out his notebook and pen again. "You reported some missing items?"

 

Mrs Hall was silent for a moment while Mr Hall lowered himself in what appeared to be a very painful manner, into his own armchair. When Mrs Hall spoke again, she was very guarded, very unsure of herself.

 

"Missing items? I don't know what you're talking about. Howard?"

 

Mr Hall looked up, his face creasing. He seemed to be waiting for some kind of prompt from his wife. After a beat, Mrs Hall sighed deeply, the sound rattling in her throat and caused her body to tighten a little. Pain? John wasn't quite sure. But she wasn't healthy, at any rate.

 

"No, I really don't know what you're talking about. I'm afraid you've come all this way for nothing, detective."

 

"Oh, I'm not a detective," John said. "I'm just...consulting."

 

The word stung a little, somehow. It was Sherlock's title, not his and he wasn't here to use it. This all felt very wrong, but not just because of Sherlock's absence. Something was off. John sniffed the air. Something smelled funny. He shot Greg a look and gestured at the hallway with his head, indicating they needed to have a chat.

 

"We'll be right back," John told the couple and hustled Greg from the room. In the hallway, John lowered his voice. "Something's up. They're being very closed off and I swear that Mrs Hall knows something glaringly obvious. I think this is more than a robbery."

 

Greg looked surprised, eyebrows raising and mouth slackening a little. He trusted John explicitly and if John said something was up, something was up. But it did seem odd. "Really? If you ask me, they're just a doddery old couple."

 

But John was sure of himself. "Did you see the way Mr Hall looked at his wife? He was waiting for something. And she definitely knows something."

 

John thought for a moment and then turned on his heel, striding back into the sitting room.

 

Mr and Mrs Hall were nowhere to be seen. John stopped dead, whipping his head around in confusion. "Mr Hall? Mrs Hall? Where are you?"

 

Greg rushed in, staring around in shock and surprise. "They were just here!"

 

"I know," John stuffed his notebook and pen away. "Something is absolutely fishy about this."

 

He peered around the sitting room before passing through a doorway and into a kitchen. It was a mess; half chopped vegetables littering the counter, old tea spilled on the floor, carrot skins hanging limply off the edge of a bench and pots and pans scattered all over the show. It stank of half rotten vegetables and fruit. But that wasn't all that made up the scent John had sniffed earlier. Where was the meat? It smelled like rotting meat. Maybe Mrs Hall had left an uncooked roast out? However, there was no meat in the kitchen. Alarm bells began to ring in John's head and he cautiously tip-toed through the kitchen, his blood beginning to thrum with adrenaline and he wished he had bought his gun. The place where it normally sat at his back in the waistband of his jeans now felt very empty. Stupid, John berated himself. Stupid fool. He peered around another doorway which lead into the hall again. He stepped out, looked left and right and then turned left, deeper into the house.

 

"Mr Hall?" he risked a whisper. "Mrs Hall?"

 

His feet creaked too loudly on the floorboards and he glanced down, willing them to be silent. As he did, he stopped in alarm. There was a blood splatter on the floor. John knelt down and gently touched the blood with his index finger. It was dry but only a couple of days old. It was clear where the main drop had hit the floor and then splattered outwards, created smaller flicks around it in a circle. He stood again and looked over his shoulder.

 

"Greg?" he whispered loudly. "Greg, are you there?"

 

But Greg didn't answer. John turned back to the matter at hand, on the lookout for more blood. He really wished he had his gun now. There was more blood staining the wooden floor and John knew that his suspicions had been correct. Something fishy was going on. Sherlock would be rubbing his hand together gleefully, telling everyone that the case was finally getting fun. But John wasn't Sherlock and instead of being delighted, John was on high alert. He had a premonition of dread that something was about to happen. It was that cliché movie line that gave it away; it was quiet. Too quiet. As if the house was waiting, holding its breath, waiting to spring into life. John's heart beat faster, a seed of fear blooming in his stomach, curling into his chest and limbs. Tension gripped his body and he forced it away, knowing that if he had to defend himself, he would need to be fluid, supple. He carefully stepped further down the hallway, coming to another door which was thrown open. John, after straining his ears for some kind of noise, peeked in. It was a bathroom and this was where the trail of blood led. Every cell in his body screamed at him to leave, to go and find Greg, get backup and just get the hell out of there. But Mary and Sherlock had been right. He was addicted to a certain kind of lifestyle, addicted to danger. And so, ignoring the warning bells clanging in his head, John stepped into the bathroom.


	4. Miss Me?

The stench was overpowering, hitting John all at once, engulfing him in a vomit worthy, god awful stink which made him gag and cover his mouth and nose with his hand. His eyes watering, John stared about him. There was blood, lots of blood, covering the tiles and this wasn't all dry. He could see that just from a cursory glance. The shower curtain was drawn and John, gritting his teeth, stepped around the pool of slippery blood and whipped it aside.

"Jesus," he couldn't contain his voice and it echoed around the bathroom, obvious and giving him away. But he couldn't help it. Crumpled in the bathtub was Mr and Mrs Hall, throats slashed and bodies limp. "Jesus Christ."

John staggered back. Even after Afghanistan, even after all the thousands of cases with Sherlock, death made him reel. Hit him right in the stomach and heart. He inhaled and exhaled deeply, calming his thundering heart. Someone had just murdered the old couple. Which meant...John's eyes widened in alarm; the murder was still here.

"Damn, damn, damn!" John wheezed, frantic with panic now. He whipped around, feet skidding in the blood and-

-damn near had a heart failure. Standing in the doorway to the bathroom was a man, dressed in a completely black suit with a black balaclava and a rather large and bloodied knife in his left hand. John stumbled backwards, back colliding with the basin.

"Hello John," the man said in a heavy Irish accent. "Having a nice day so far?"

"What?" John gasped out, trying desperately to rein in his fear.

"Good day so far, John?" the man asked. His accent was off putting. It sounded familiar and John knew why. It had the same sort of sadistic and Irish tone as Jim Moriarty.

"Could have been better," John managed to keep his voice somewhat steady, wishing beyond anything that he had his gun.

"I bet you're surprised to see me here, John," the man said gleefully.

"And why is that?" John asked. Keep control of the situation, he told himself. Try and gain the upper hand. Someone will come soon. Greg will alert the police for backup.

"I'm supposed to be dead," the man said. He sounded a little disappointed. "Don't you remember me? Did you miss me?"

John narrowed his eyes. He understood the game now. "I get it," he said. "You're Jim Moriarty."

The man clapped his hands together in delight which wasn't an altogether easy thing to pull off, given the rather enormous knife he also held. "I knew you'd get there in the end, John," he said happily.

"Except you're not Jim Moriarty," John said quietly. "So who the hell are you really?"

"What do you mean, I'm not him?" the man brandished the knife in front of him, kind of like a small child beginning to throw a tantrum after they've been told that they have to go to bed.

"First of all," John took a deep breath, controlling the shaking in his bones. "Jim Moriarty would have no qualms about showing his face. Second of all, he wasn't one to do the dirty work himself. God forbid he ruin his Westwood. And thirdly and most finally, Jim Moriarty is dead."

The man was silent, angry. John could tell he was angry by the faint quivering of his body and the way he gripped the knife. Finally, he spoke, still trying to maintain his Irish accent which has begun to slip a little in his fury. "But am I really?"

"Game's up," John said firmly. "I know you're not Moriarty. So who are you? And why did you need to murder Mr and Mrs Hall?"

The man said nothing. John waited, heart still thudding. The man also seemed to be waiting, clutching his knife. And then, all of a sudden, he exploded into movement, lunging forwards at John with a yell that was definitely not Irish. Instinctively, John raised his hands to ward off any offence but the man had both size and a bloody sharp knife on his side. He came hurtling down onto John, slicing John's palms and sending him collapsing to the bloodied floor. John yelled for help, a vain attempt, and something smashed into his temple, sending a blinding flash of pain through him. And the world swirled into darkness.

Sherlock was lying on the pavement, blood all over the stones and body crumpled. His hair was stained with blood, damp and limp and his blue eyes were wide, staring. Blank. His coat was splayed out, as lifeless as the man on the ground to whom the coat belonged. John couldn't stand and sank in the arms of the people around him.

"He's my friend," he mumbled in numb pain. A moan passed through him, not unlike a trapped and wounded animal. Deep, instinctive. "Please, he's my friend, please."

He reached out to find Sherlock's pulse because there was no way Sherlock could be dead. His wrist was so thin in John's hand and there was no pulse thrumming under the pale skin. Why was there no pulse? Because Sherlock couldn't be dead. John felt the world sinking and rising around him, pulsating like an ocean. Sherlock could not be dead. No. It wasn't possible. Yet there was so much blood and he had seen him fall, tumble from the roof and the blood and no pulse and-

John peeled his eyes open with a groan. This act felt like trying to pry apart two sheets of paper stuck together with water; darn near impossible without ripping something. It was pitch black but he wasn't in bed, waking from a nightmare at 5:30am. He was bundled up, terrible cramps consuming his legs and great pain in his temple. Moriarty was back. He had been here! No, wait. John frowned, trying to sort out his recollection of what had happened before the world had vanished. It wasn't Moriarty. It was someone pretending to be Moriarty. But why? And Mr and Mrs Hall were dead. And...where was Greg? It was all too much. John moaned in pain. His temple really hurt and the cramps in his body were horrifically painful. He tried to stretch out but his feet hit something solid. His head was also pressed against something. John reached a hand up but it didn't go very far, touching slick, smooth metal. Something was running down his arm and it took John a moment to realise that it was his own blood. That's right. His hands had been sliced by the massive knife that the Moriarty imposter had been waving around. Wondering where the hell he was, John blinked several times, hoping some light might become clear so he could see. But everything remained stubbornly dark. John's mouth was dry and he licked his lips. They tasted metallic, of blood, and John couldn't help but wonder why. Where the HELL was he?!

"Help!" he tried to yell but it came out as a hoarse whisper, cracked and disused. And then everything began to move and it hit John like a freight train to the head as to where he was. The boot of a car. He was stuffed, unceremoniously, in the boot of a car. He bumped about, each bump causing shooting pain to rush through him. His phone, he needed his phone. Hopefully the man hadn't taken it, though if he was any decent Moriarty imposter, he'd have removed it. John wriggled his arms to his sides, fingering his pockets. There was a rectangular lump! He could hardly believe his luck. His phone was still there. Even in the situation he was in, he could still marvel at the stupidity of his abductor. They were a very poor imposter indeed, leaving him with his phone. John managed to grip his phone between his index finger and thumb and ease it from his pocket before tightening his grip and yanking his arm towards his face so it didn't get jammed between his body and the wall beside him. He overcompensated and elbowed his nose. However, over the terrible cramps and throbbing of his temple, he hardly felt it. He did feel the warm blood running over his lips though and groaned with frustration. After managing to extricate his other hand from where it was pinned to his other side (with a touch more care this time), John got both hands onto his phone and positioned it close to his face. He woke it up and unlocked it. There were no missed calls and no texts. John opened his contacts list and-

"What the hell?" John stumbled over the words, his lips oddly numb and colliding together like drunk companions at a party. Where was his contacts list? It just said that he had no contacts. Confused, John opened his phone app instead and it didn't work. And then he realized. This guy was smarter than John gave him credit. He'd removed the sim card. The bastard. The utter wanker had removed the damn sim card. He'd given John hope and then had taken it away. Now John was furious. At least he had his phone light, though that was little comfort. He was hardly able to move his hands and he knew where he was now. They bounced over another bump and John yelped. What was he to do? Sherlock would know what to do. He'd come up with some brilliantly cunning plan to get them both out of this mess, though John doubted they'd both fit into this very confined space. He ran over his options. He could shout. But he knew no one would hear, even if they were travelling through town because the car was rumbling very loudly. Anyway, John didn't think they were in town. He couldn't hear any other traffic. Options, John told himself. What were his other options? Stay still until they arrived. Didn't sound too nice and John didn't really want to know what would happen to him next. Try and break out of the boot? John suspected the boot was locked and he knew it was made from metal. Besides, he could hardly move. Nothing. There was nothing to do but wait. Wait for a more hell. He wished he could call Sherlock. Or the police or-

"John, you fool," he reprimanded himself. He could call the police! Even with the sim card removed, emergency calls could be made! Hope rekindled in his chest and he positioned his phone in front of his face again. He opened the phone app and dialled the emergency number. It rang. Holy sweet Jesus, it rang! He put it on speaker phone because he couldn't get it to his ear.

"Hello?" he said when it rang through.

"Do you require police, ambulance or fire brigade?" the operator asked in a cool tone.

"Police," John gasped out in desperation. "I need the police. I need Scotland Yard."

"Right away, sir," the operator said. "Please hold."

John held. Some sort of elevator music played for a few seconds and then a male's voice said in an open and friendly tone, "Hello?"

"Hello," John said, relieved. "Listen, I need help."

"How can I help you?" the man asked.

"I've been abducted. I'm stuck in the boot of a car and I don't know where I am," John spoke quickly; he couldn't help himself.

"Could you please repeat that?" the man asked. John ground his teeth in frustration and was just about to explain his predicament when the line went dead. Disbelieving, John blinked a couple of times and looked at the screen. The battery flashed several times before the screen died, the welcome light suddenly vanishing and leaving John blinking in the gloom.

"No, no, NO!" John's voice rose into a shout. "DON'T YOU DARE!"

But it was useless. The phone was dead. Help wasn't coming anytime soon. John dropped his phone on his stomach and felt like screaming. So he did. He opened his mouth and roared at the boot of the car. Of course, it did no use and simply made his head pound. He needed Sherlock. He needed Sherlock more than ever and Sherlock wasn't there. John touched the metal above him again. And suddenly, the car stopped, sending John rolling a little into one side of the boot. John now had several ideas running through his head. He could wait for the boot to open and leap out, knock whoever opened the boot over and make a run for it. It seemed like a good idea until he recalled the whopping great knife. Reviewing that, not such a good idea. So, he had to allow himself to be removed from the boot. Then he could consider his fighting options. There was the sounds of crunching gravel and then very bright, white light flooded into the boot, blinding John. He blinked desperately. He needed to see. After a tense beat, John could make out the hazy outline of the man in black. He still had his knife and John was glad he hadn't leaped out to fight. He'd probably have ended up with a knife in his stomach.

"Did you have a nice ride, John?" the man asked. He'd dropped his Irish accent and now sounded like a very common Londoner, leaving out letters and mispronouncing most of his words. Guttersnipe, Sherlock would have called it.

"Oh, it was lovely," John replied sarcastically. "A real bundle of joy."

Rosie. She was a bundle of joy. God, what about Rosie? He couldn't possibly die here, he had a daughter waiting for him. The thought of Rosie fuelled him, sent fire through his bones.

"Good," the man said. "Now, climb out of the boot."

John began reaching up and out of the boot, gripping the slick metal with his trembling fingers. He lifted his head out and peered around. Trees, fences...he had no clue where he was and the man in black was obscuring most of his view. John felt like vomiting now that he was moving but he clenched his mouth shut and continued clambering out. Finally, he swung his legs out and set them on the ground, unfolding himself. The cramps that had caused him so much pain began to dissipate but the pounding of his head didn't. If anything, it got worse.

"Where am I?" he asked, voice creaking.

"Never you mind," the man said, grabbing his upper arm and dragging him sideways. John stumbled, tripping over his feet. Damn it. He wasn't getting out of this one, not this time. He had no strength to even think about fighting. If only he had his gun. Or Sherlock.

"Let me go," John protested weakly. The man laughed, hauling John. His vision was blurring and he squeezed his eyes shut before flinging them open to try and clear the blurriness. It didn't work. He was screwed.

"I believe he asked you to let him go."

John's heart leaped. He knew that voice. He knew it well. Low, baritone. And cocky as hell. Sherlock. The man holding John stopped dead, turning around slowly and tugging John in position in front of him. A cold blade suddenly kissed his throat. But Sherlock was there, standing by the boot of the car with his coat spread behind him, flapping slightly in the breeze and a gun in his hand, pointing straight and true at the man. His curls were dancing in the wind and his face was mostly impassive, though if you knew him like John did, you would have been able to make out the anger burning in his eyes.

"Sherlock Holmes," the man said, putting on his Irish accent again like a coat. But Sherlock just laughed his false laugh he gave to people whom he didn't like.

"Hello wanna-be Jim," he said in an overly casual voice, imitating a schoolboy in a manner he used to annoy Mycroft sometimes. However, his next words were spoken in his very serious, very baritone manner. "Now, let John Watson go before I put a bullet through your skull, and believe me, I have one hell of an aim."

The man pressed the knife harder into John's throat and John winced, feeling the blade nick his skin, drawing tiny beads of blood. "You fire that gun and I promise you, I will end your little friend's life."

Little! He wasn't that short! John felt mildly stung and pursed his lips. Just because his captor was built like an ox and Sherlock was unfairly tall!

"Word from the wise," Sherlock said, mildly amused. "Don't call John 'little'. Vatican Cameo's!"

John moved, using the last reserves of his strength to swing his leg backwards and into the man's groin. He released John with a high pitched scream and Sherlock's gun fired, the bullet sailing over John's shoulder as he dropped to the ground and lodging itself into the man's skull.

"Damn," Sherlock muttered, the tone of self appreciation. "I am one hell of a shot."

John knelt on the gravel which dug into his knees, still trying to prevent himself from throwing up. Sherlock rushed to him, dropping his gun and grabbing John's shoulders, holding him upright so he didn't faceplant.

"You came," John gasped out.

"Of course I came," Sherlock said gently. "I would never let you go like that."

"Sherlock?" John wanted to tell the other man something, something that had been preying on his mind for a long time but the words didn't quite make it from his brain to his mouth and he slumped, crumpling into Sherlock's thin arms. The world was spinning, curling away from him and he felt so incredibly useless. Sherlock's face hovered above him, swirling in a mist that covered his eyes. John desperately wanted to tell him something but it kept slipping from his consciousness. He felt himself rising, gliding higher and he realized, with detached wonder, that Sherlock was carrying him. An angel. He looked rather like an angel with a halo of black instead of gold or white and suddenly John remembered what he wanted to tell Sherlock but before he could open his mouth, he was gone.

John didn't dream. Not this time. His body was too weary, his head too tired and his heart too sore. All he knew is that he needed to tell Sherlock something before it burned a hole any further into his heart. His eyes were still closed, a world of black, but he could hear Sherlock breathing deeply beside him. Something was beeping, machines hissing. Hospital. John was in hospital. He took a moment to marvel at the irony of the situation. Usually, he was the one looking at the person in bed. This time, he was the patient. Slowly, he opened his eyes. Sherlock sat right beside the bed, eyes closed and slumped in his chair, fast asleep. His hair was limp and his face shadowed. How long had John been here? He couldn't tell and someone had removed his wrist watch. He felt remarkably better now; his head no longer pounded with sheer ferocity and the aching in his body was gone, though he figured that had something to do the morphine drip attached to him. John blinked to clear his vision properly and gazed at Sherlock again. He needed to tell him something. It was eating him up, consuming him and it had been for a very long time. He just never knew it.

"Sherlock," he whispered, his voice hoarse and dusty. Sherlock didn't move, still sleeping. "I love you."


	5. I Love You

It had been several days since John had been discharged from the hospital and most of those had been spent recovering, sitting in his armchair and being waited on by Mrs Hudson. His hands had been bandaged up, rather like a mummy from a film and it was difficult to even hold a cup of tea. What a tragedy that was! No, really, it was. Sherlock had looked after Rosie and Greg had popped in to explain what had happened. Apparently, Greg had been clobbered over the head the moment John had left the room and had woken up outside by his police car, around half an hour afterwards, sporting a rather impressive lump on the back of his head. It was still there, looking bruised, painful and very tender. He had instantly called for backup but of course, John was gone by the time they arrived. They searched the house, finding the bodies of Mr and Mrs Hall in the bathroom and a lot of drugs used to keep them sedated. That would have explained the shaking of the hands and other extremities that John had put down to a muscular disease, John mused. Other than that, there was no trace of the killer. Greg told John that Scotland Yard was investigating. However, John knew that Sherlock would be on the case, the moment he was able. Sherlock had also shared his tale. He had received John's text and began making his way to the house after ten minutes. But traffic had been hell and he got there via the back entrance (therefore not finding Greg) moments after the car containing John had skidded away. Sherlock had then stolen a motorbike from next door and tore through the streets after it. By some Sherlock style miracle, he had managed to keep pace with the car and track John to some house in the country side. The rest, John knew. But Sherlock wasn't letting on where he had been before all of that and still refused to talk about why he had vanished that morning.

 

Now, John sat in his chair, a cup of tea in his hand which was mostly free from wrappings, though a couple of thin bindings covered the middle of his left palm, and Sherlock carefully removing the last of the stitches in his temple. He'd said he could do it himself but Sherlock insisted. John also didn't think he had needed stitches in the first place but apparently the nurse was a very motherly one who made sure John was completely and utterly patched up. He'd had to laugh at himself in the mirror though. He looked like someone had used him for target practice. Sherlock's slender fingers pressed against his forehead and John inhaled deeply. There was a snip of the scissors and then the pressure was gone and Sherlock moved back.

 

"Done," he announced. "You look like you again."

 

"Thanks," John said, finishing his tea and putting the cup down. "Thank you."

 

Sherlock headed into the kitchen to put the scissors away and dispose of the stitches. When he returned, his face was impassive and he sat in his chair, looking at John who raised his eyebrows. Sherlock clearly had something on his mind. He steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them. John could almost hear the cogs in his brain whirring.

 

"John," Sherlock said eventually, voice careful.

 

"Yeah?" John asked.

 

"Did you mean what you said in the hospital?"

 

John blinked. "I didn't know you were awake."

 

"Did you mean it?"

 

John was silent. Those words he had spoken, those words that came from the deepest and darkest corners of his heart were out in the open now. There was no taking them back. And he didn't want to. They had been burning a hole in him and he had to get them out.

 

"Yes," John heard himself say, as if from a very long way down a tunnel. No going back. He had to be honest. There had been too many times in his life where he had lied. Now was not the time. He was done with lies. Done with pretending to be something he wasn't or not be something that he was.

 

"You did?" Sherlock dropped his hands to his lap and stared at John with all the hope in the world in his eyes and John suddenly realized. He realized who Sherlock had needed to consult Mycroft about. He suddenly knew why Sherlock had told him that it didn't matter, that it wasn't something that would be requited and why Sherlock had left him alone.

 

"I meant it, Sherlock," John said firmly. "I meant every bit of it."

 

John, as if in a daze, found himself climbing up from his chair and kneeling in front of Sherlock. His knees ached a little from his fall into the gravel but he hardly felt it, heart beating too hard. The second time in less than a week. He took the other man's slender hands again and looked up at him, appreciating each angle of his face and how much hope and conflict lay in his eyes.

 

"But you..." Sherlock trailed off, voice breaking slightly. "You're not... I'm not... I don't understand."

 

"Neither do I," John told him. He moved his hands so they rested on Sherlock's thin shoulders. "All I know is that it was eating away at me and it's true. I love you."

 

With those words, those words between them, John leaned forwards and kissed Sherlock. He had never imaged doing that, pressing his lips to Sherlock's but it felt right. Somehow, inexplicably, it felt right. His heart was thundering but not from fear this time. His hands snaked around Sherlock's neck and tangled in his curly hair, holding him. Sherlock didn't move, didn't kiss him back. Suddenly, all at once, John felt terrible. Sherlock wasn't that kind of guy! He drew back, letting Sherlock go and hastily began apologizing, voice tripping over itself. God, why on earth did he do that? Sherlock was not one for open displays of affection and just imposing it on him was unbelievably stupid and rude.

 

"I am so sorry," he said. "I...I don't know what came over me. I just...I'm sorry."

 

Sherlock was sitting stock still, lips slightly parted and face a little flushed. John waited for him to say something, anything. Something about personal space and respecting that. But Sherlock said nothing and John felt as though he were drowning in a pool of stupidity. Why would he do that? He didn't think. He acted impulsively and-

 

"Don't be sorry," Sherlock said at last. "You've no reason to be sorry."

 

"But," John faltered. "I thought you didn't..."

 

"I didn't," Sherlock spoke gently. "I don't. But...you...you're different. You've always been different, John."

 

John smiled then. Sherlock was looking at him now, his eyes glowing and face flushing properly. There was no more feeling bad. John moved forwards, cupping Sherlock's face and holding his gaze.

 

"Sherlock Holmes," he said. "I am irrevocably in love with you."

 

This time, when John kissed him, Sherlock responded. True, he wasn't overly experienced or anything but it still made John tremble inside. Sherlock's hands sneaked around John's back, pulling him a little closer and John slid his own hands into Sherlock's hair again. Their bodies pressed together, lips joined, they held each other and knew, in that infinite moment, that there was nothing in this world that could keep them apart. John knew Mary would be happy for him. He was pretty sure she knew. She knew when she was alive. She knew the secret that John had in his heart, even though he didn't know it himself. Finally, they broke apart and John was about to move back and give Sherlock some space but he kept holding him, pulling him into an embrace.

 

"John," Sherlock whispered.

 

"Yeah?" John said quietly, head resting on Sherlock's shoulder.

 

"I need to tell you something."

 

"Okay," John was grinning, giddy.

 

"I love you, John," Sherlock said. He had never sounded so tender, so soft and so caring before. So open and honest. And John fell in love even further, if that was possible.

 

"Mrs Hudson is going to have a field day," John said after a while. "She's going to say 'I told you so' and then she's going to laugh and laugh and laugh."

 

"Yes," agreed Sherlock, sounding amused.

 

"She always knew," John mused and drew away from Sherlock, moving back to his own chair. Something had changed in Sherlock, something had changed in his eyes. It made John very happy to know that it had been him that changed it. "But Sherlock?"

 

"Yes John?" Sherlock said, running his hands through his hair to ruffle it up, as if knowing how much John appreciated that move.

 

"I know you're not the most comfortable person with...you know...open acts of affection," John forged through what he wanted to say, knowing it needed saying, knowing he needed to let Sherlock know he didn't want any more or any less than Sherlock was comfortable of giving.

 

"John, it's okay," Sherlock said.

 

"No, I want you to know that I-"

 

"John, do you remember what you said to me on our first case together? In the restaurant?"

 

John shook his head. That had been many years ago now. It was sort of blurred, a dream from an age ago. The beginning of their adventures together.

 

"You said that it was all okay," Sherlock said and John recalled it now, their conversation when he'd tried to identify how Sherlock felt about relationships. "And I am telling you now, it is all okay."

 

"Sherlock," John said but he couldn't quite bring himself to break the moment.

 

"It's all okay," Sherlock repeated firmly.

 

"Just..." John needed to vocalize it, breaking the moment or not. He eyed Sherlock closely, putting every ounce of sincerity and honesty into his tone. "I want no more and no less than what you are comfortable with giving."

 

"John," Sherlock began but John held up his hand.

 

"Do you understand?"

 

For a moment, Sherlock was quiet. Then a small smile creased his face. "Yes, John. I do."

 

The two men sat in comfortable silence, the late evening surrounding them and the fire cracking happily beside them. John felt at ease. He hadn't really been like this since...well...forever, it felt like. The burning thing, the terrible burning admission was out of his heart and, even better, it was requited. What more could someone ask for? He could recall the first person he'd fallen for. He'd tried to tell them via some flowers and a card at the tender age of 19 and had been laughed at and told to go find a little hole to crawl into. That's how he'd felt at the time, too. Like he wanted to crawl into a little hole and hide. There'd been his line of girlfriends who'd not ended well. Then Mary. Mary had been so different. But now...who'd have thought! Him and Sherlock. He would have never have guessed. Sherlock, he looked happy. Not just happy because of a particularly difficult case but genuinely happy. John thought back to the days leading up to Sherlock leaping off Bart's Hospital. He thought back to Molly Hooper and her words that both she and Sherlock thought he couldn't hear.

 

"You look sad, when you think he can't see you."

 

And he had. He had always looked sad. Despite the fact that Sherlock had said he was married to his work and didn't require affection and love, he was only human. He needed love in whatever form it came. That was something John found inherently beautiful about human beings; they all needed love, even if they didn't think it. And so, someone without love like Sherlock looked sad because he was missing something that all humans needed. But now, now he looked happy. Properly happy. John wondered what Molly would think. He knew Molly loved Sherlock. But she had done what many, many people couldn't do. She had set him free. That's how the saying went, wasn't it?

 

If you love someone, set them free. If they never come back, they were never yours. If they return, they were always yours.


	6. Hysterics

Things had changed in 221B Baker Street and it had not gone unnoticed. Mrs Hudson, the woman who was most attuned to her boys in the flat above, had noted the looks shared between Sherlock and John and pulled John aside three mornings after the evening of...well...sharing. Sherlock was taking an exorbitantly long time in the shower and John had Rosie sitting on his hip while he made toast and tea. Mrs Hudson poked her nose into the kitchen with her customary "ooo-oo" and leaned on the door frame.

 

"Good morning John," she said after a while.

 

"Good morning Mrs Hudson," John replied chirpily. He fetched a pot of raspberry jam from the fridge and set it on the bench before turning to face Mrs Hudson. She was looking at him oddly, he thought. "What?"

 

"Oh, nothing," Mrs Hudson shook her head, widening her eyes in innocence. But John knew that look. He put down the spoon he was holding and hoisted Rosie further up on his hip.

 

"What is it?" he asked. Rosie grabbed a chunk of his shirt and began sucking on it. "No, no, Rosie, don't do that," he begged her, trying to remove it from her mouth. She didn't let go and he gave up, figuring he'd just change it later and throw it in the wash.

 

"How's Sherlock?" asked Mrs Hudson. John, being completely and utterly oblivious to both hints and implied meaning, shrugged, gesturing towards the bathroom. They could hear the gurgling of the plumbing that indicated someone was in the shower and...was that singing? Was Sherlock...singing in the shower? John couldn't believe his ears. Sherlock was singing in the shower!

 

"Apparently," John laughed, "Sherlock is in a very good mood."

 

Mrs Hudson didn't say a word but continued to eye John knowingly. He, however, didn't notice a thing, continuing to butter toast and pour hot water into the teapot, all the while making sure Rosie didn't smear butter on his face or eat something she shouldn't. At last, John sighed and turned to Mrs Hudson again.

 

"Okay, something's on your mind," he said, licking jam off his finger.

 

Mrs Hudson put her hands on her hips and gave him a severe look. "When exactly were you going to tell me?"

 

"Tell you what?" John was baffled for a second. More than a second, truth be told. Mrs Hudson sighed deeply and in an exasperated tone, rather like a mother would.

 

"You know," she said, pointing first at John and then at the bathroom where the shower had ceased and Sherlock had stopped singing. "You and Sherlock!"

 

"What?" said John. And then, "Oh. Oh!"

 

"I thought so," Mrs Hudson said, clearly pleased with herself. With that, she turned to leave. John hastened after her.

 

"Wait," he said. She turned back to him. "It's not...it's not, you know, physical, or anything like that. It's...well, you know. It's..."

 

John trailed off awkwardly and after a second in which John felt as though he might die of embarrassment, Mrs Hudson burst into peals of laughter. Eventually, John couldn't help himself and joined in her giggling until the pair of them were clutching their stomachs and wheezing for air. Even Rosie had joined in, gurgling happily and dribbling all over John's shirt.

 

"I told you so," Mrs Hudson said through her laughing. "I knew it! Gosh, anyone could see the chemistry between you two!"

 

"Oh shush," John patted her upper arm, still trying to calm himself and failing miserably. Tears were running freely down his cheeks and he couldn't quite breath properly.

 

"Honestly," Mrs Hudson continued, eyes watering uncontrollably, "You'd have to be blind to miss it."

 

"Mrs Hudson, you are too much," John reached for the wall to support himself and at that moment, Sherlock entered the room. John knew, without turning around, that he had come in because he brought in a sort of presence, a regal and imposing presence which intimidated most people but was very familiar and comforting to John.

 

"I thought I heard the sounds of dying owls," Sherlock said, instead of wishing them a good morning as he fluffed his damp hair with his fingers, flicking water around the room.

 

"You're not far off," John spluttered, fighting off a fresh wave of laughter. He had glanced at Mrs Hudson who had just winked saucily at him because Sherlock had walked in and he just couldn't help himself.

 

"Oh Sherlock," Mrs Hudson had also succumbed to a new bout of laughing and wobbled over to Sherlock, bent in the middle, to give him an impromptu hug. John turned a little to smile and Sherlock patted Mrs Hudson on the back a couple of times, clearly utterly baffled at their hilarity.

 

"Morning," John coughed, attempting to sound both suave and calm and failing brilliantly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow delicately before detaching himself from Mrs Hudson and putting his hands on his hips.

 

"What laughing fest have I crashed?" he asked. John shot a glance at Mrs Hudson who wiggled her hips.

 

"Mrs Hudson, no!" John damn near collapsed on the floor. There was something about admitting what he felt for Sherlock that had lightened him so much, he could freely laugh and take the piss out of himself. "I'm telling you...or, I'm trying to tell you, it's not like that!"

 

"Live and let live," Mrs Hudson quoted herself, winking at Sherlock who still looked very confused. John managed to stand up straight and stop snorting for a second.

 

"She knows," he explained. Sherlock frowned, shrugging to illustrate his continued bafflement. John rolled his eyes. "About us? She knows."

 

"Oh," Sherlock said. He eyed them both for a moment and then walked over to the bench, plucking a piece of buttered toast from the plate and taking a careless bite from it to show how much it didn't bother him. However, he botched the whole thing, inhaled crumbs and began coughing, hacking away and bending double with his eyes watering and his body convulsing. Which sent Mrs Hudson into fits of giggles again. John hurried over and patted Sherlock on the back, trying to contain his own giggling.

 

"I'm fine," Sherlock spluttered, voice very hoarse and very high and rather strained. It was so out of character that John began laughing properly again. Meanwhile, Rosie had stopped finding everything funny and just wanted breakfast and began chewing on John's shirt collar in frustration.

 

"Hang on Rosie," John finally reigned in his laughter. "Sherlock's busy choking."

 

"Am not," Sherlock whispered hoarsely. "Shut up."

 

He stood up and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. John patted him once more on his back and then looked at Mrs Hudson who'd managed to control her laughing. She waved at them both and then walked away. The moment she thought she was out of earshot, she gave a little squeal and John could hear her saying something about always knowing and being right. He grinned a little.

 

"Better?" John turned back to Sherlock who was now gulping down a glass of water. Once he'd drained it, he put the glass in the sink and dabbed his mouth.

 

"Better," Sherlock confirmed, voice still higher than normal. "What on earth were you two laughing about?"

 

"You know," John said, "I'm not actually sure."

 

Sherlock looked completely and utterly perplexed.

 

"Well, she asked me what was going between us and I said it wasn't physical and then...it sort of dissolved into hysterics," John explained. Sherlock took a moment before making a sound of understanding. Then he looked John dead in the eyes and...winked saucily. John didn't even know that Sherlock had the capacity or the know-how to wink saucily which made the whole thing even funnier and they ended up leaning on each other, hunched over laughing, Sherlock's baritone rolling chuckle melting into John's considerably higher and more jerky giggle. Rosie started gurgling with them and they stayed like that for quite some time, unable to function like normal human beings anymore. It was like they'd inhaled helium or something.

 

"Well, I assume you're now perfectly fine," came a curt voice. Sherlock stopped laughing instantly and straightened up, face suddenly composed, the only thing giving him away being the tears of laughter still running down his face. John hiccuped a few times before standing too and clutching Rosie to his shoulder. All dressed in his suit and tie, Mycroft stood in the doorway to the kitchen, his umbrella (which John now knew had hidden capabilities which would have made James Bond proud) tucked under his arm and a look of great irritation on his face.

 

"Just spiffing, brother dear," Sherlock smiled falsely, though John could hear the underlying humour still colouring his voice which he'd attempted to make sound cold and clinical.

 

"I just thought I would...what's the phrase? Drop by," Mycroft told them. "Check up on my little brother."

 

Sherlock had disdain written all over his face. "I don't need checking up on."

 

"Apparently not," Mycroft nodded curtly. "I'll be on my way then, brother mine."

 

"Fabulous," Sherlocked replied. Then a very cheeky and playful look bounded across his face. "John," he said loudly. "John, we have some news, don't we John?"

 

John was confused for only a moment. Then he smirked. Time for a little fun with Mycroft. "Oh, yeah," he said, cocking his head to one side and then striding over to the bench to make Rosie a bottle. Sherlock grinned.

 

"Oh well," Sherlock said lightly. "You were going?"

 

Mycroft didn't move. John finished making Rosie's bottle. Sherlock flicked his hand towards the door, indicating that his brother ought to leave.

 

"News?" Mycroft couldn't help himself.

 

"Nothing serious," John reassured him, coaxing the bottle into Rosie's mouth. Delighted she was finally getting some attention, she began sucking happily, eyes closed with glee.

 

"No, nothing of any great importance what so ever," Sherlock said. "Good day!"

 

"What news, Sherlock?" Mycroft snapped impatiently. Sherlock sent John a 'can-you-believe-his-nerve?' look before tucking his hands carelessly into the pockets of his trousers and whistling innocently.

 

"Nothing to concern the British government," John half smiled and rocked Rosie gently. "Have a nice day, Mycroft."

 

"Damnit Sherlock Holmes!" Mycroft shouted, losing his temper. "Either you tell me what is going on or-"

 

"Or what, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked coolly. "You'll scare me with a ghost story? Tell me I'm an idiot?"

 

"I shall deduce it," Mycroft announced, trying and failing to sound superior in that moment.

 

"Ooooh," John pretended to sounded terrified. "Oh dear! Whatever shall we do, Sherlock?"

 

"You couldn't deduce this, even if you tried," Sherlock said scornfully. "You're too afraid."

 

Mycroft was silent. Then he said, "If this is about our conversation the other day, I already said that I was sorry."

 

"That's in the past now!" Sherlock was suddenly cheerful, baffling Mycroft even further. "Goodbye Mycroft!"

 

This time, Mycroft turned on his heel and marched out the door in a huff. John felt meanly pleased and he knew that Sherlock would feel delighted with himself. He looked at Sherlock who had a silly grin on his face.

 

"You enjoyed that, didn't you?" John grinned.

 

"I would never," Sherlock sounded mock offended. Then he grabbed his teacup and took a swig, slurping a little. John sniggered and then realized that Rosie had both finished her bottle and fallen asleep. Sometimes he wondered if babies had about four settings which they rotated between. Sleep was the master setting, following by Crying, Pooping/Peeing and then Consuming Milk. He cradled her in his arms and then carried her to her nest by the fire, tucking her in gently. Sherlock had followed, smiling fondly down at Rosie.

 

"She really is lovely, isn't she?" he asked.

 

"Yeah," John said happily. "She is."


	7. Researching

John stood by the fire, hands in his pockets and letting the flames warm his backside while Rosie slept and Sherlock swept around the kitchen and sitting room, grabbing books, flicking through pages and tossing them aside. He seemed to be looking for something, trying to work something out. He whipped past John, dancing almost into different areas of the room with books in his hands and, at one moment, a pen tucked behind his ear. After several minutes of this, John finally had enough curiosity brewing inside him to warrant being hit with a lengthy explanation that he didn't understand.

 

"What are you doing?" he asked. Sherlock stopped right in the middle of the room, holding a book in one hand and four stacked atop one another in the other. His blue silk dressing gown floated down to his calves, finally descending from its flapping behind Sherlock as he bustled around.

 

"What?" Sherlock said, not quite understanding what John was asking.

 

"I said," John repeated with mild exasperation, "What are you doing?"

 

Sherlock blinked at him. "I'm researching!" he said, as if John ought to have known.

 

"Researching what, exactly?" John ignored the jibe, preferring to take a step away from the fire; his ass was getting a bit hot.

 

There was a great sigh from Sherlock that John knew all too well. It was the sigh of 'my-god-you-are-not-smart' and 'I'm-going-to-have-to-explain-it-all'. John was used to it though; he'd been living with it for many years now and learned not to let it get to him. Besides, it was cute. The way Sherlock got so childishly excited about this sort of thing was utterly adorable. He'd get the grin shortly, the impish grin that make his cheekbones stand out that little bit more and John would melt.

 

"Well, the man who was pretending to be Moriarty has got to have some kind of history," Sherlock put his books down on the floor beside him and shoved his hands in his dressing gown pockets, swooshing the opening out in front of him with dramatic flair. "I want to know about him. I want to know why he kidnapped you, murdered a seemingly innocent pair of old people, why he was pretending to be Moriarty and what his main motives are in life. You know, what makes him tick."

 

"Right," said John after a beat. "Fair enough."

 

"So, I'm looking at these!" Sherlock bent down and plucked a book from the pile before tossing it to John who caught it one handed and glanced at the cover.

 

"Modern Day Criminals – Who They Are and Why They Do It," John read out loud. He squinted at the cover, frowned and then looked back up at Sherlock."Seriously? You do realize this is most probably garbage? And why on earth aren't you looking for information on the internet?"

 

"Oh," said Sherlock, looking vaguely disappointed. "That's probably a good idea."

 

"I'm full of them," John winked, tossing the book back to him. Sherlock caught it and threw it to the ground, as if in disgust.

 

"Also, I figured that I looked smarter if I was looking at lots of books,"Sherlock grinned and mock swaggered to the table in the sitting room so he could throw himself in the chair and grab his laptop from underneath a bunch of folders. He flipped open the lid and then stared at the screen for a couple of seconds.

 

"What?" said John.

 

"Nothing," Sherlock said and began typing, fingers clicking rapidly on the keys.John rolled his eyes. Even when Sherlock thought he was being inclusive and letting John in on the action, the guy had no clue. Sure, he was opening up and all but he still had difficulty dealing with basic human interests and gauging social situations. John didn't mind though. He was content.

 

Sherlock had been 'researching' for hours, though John had since become convinced that he'd discovered the dangerous world of Tumblr and cat memes or something because surely one couldn't research one human being for that long.Besides, John didn't think that this Moriarty imposter deserved quiet giggling and frequent deep inhalations of excitement. To occupy himself, John played with Rosie while she was awake and cleaned up while she was sleeping. He washed all of Sherlock's empty test tubes (ignoring the ones in use because he really didn't want to know what sort of human materials blended with chemicals would be floating around in there), filed away his papers in alphabetical order, scrubbed the sooty bottoms of seven beakers, installed a new rubber tube on Sherlock's favourite Bunsen burner (the old one had perished and was moments away from become a gas hazard and blowing up), fished the air tight bag of index fingers from the fridge and put them into a small chilly bin by the door where he had taken to firing any parts of the human body found in eating areas and finally swept the floor. Sherlock had once teased John about his inability to cope with a messy flat. John put it down to his time in the military when they had to keep their barracks clean or face the wrath of their commanders. Sherlock put it down to having lived with a wife for a while, though John knew Mary hadn't been 100% dedicated to keeping the house immaculate. She was too busy being...well...Mary.

 

"Sherlock," John said, once the kitchen was clean and he was back to standing in front of the fire, toasting his butt through his jeans. Sherlock mumbled something incoherent, acknowledging John's presence. "I'm going out."

 

At this, Sherlock whipped his head up, a dark curl flopping over his left eye. He shoved it away impatiently. "Where?"

 

John couldn't help laughing at this. "Jeeze, I've been here all day and pretty much invisible but the moment I go to leave, you panic."

 

"I'm not panicking," Sherlock said immediately, looking back to his laptop screen to illustrate his image of 'not panicking'. However, John could see his eyes flicking to the side, checking his peripheral vision to make sure John was still there. "Why would I be panicking?"

 

"Hey, Sherlock?" John called over his shoulder as he walked away from the fire and grabbed his coat and scarf. "I really am going out."

 

Sherlock was silent, still staring stubbornly at his laptop. Then he paused his typing to look up at John who was loitering by the door. "No, you're not."

 

John was mildly crestfallen that Sherlock had seen right through his little pantomime and hung his coat back on the hook along with his scarf. "How'd you know?"

 

"You left your phone on the arm of your chair," Sherlock said, grinning smugly.

 

"Damn," said John, striding back to his chair and plucking the phone up, turning it over in his hand which still wore a thin strip of bandage to cover the worst of the cuts received from the knife that the Moriarty imposter had wielded like a crazed nutcase. The phone was in terrible condition, having gone through multiple hell's, the last one being a collision with the fridge. It was probably time he got a new one, though he was rather attached to it. He ran his index finger over the engraved words on the back.

 

Harry Watson  
From Clara  
XXX

 

It was a symbolic phone too. Sherlock had deduced his whole life story from it and him; the first time they ever met. A single glance. He'd been very impressed indeed.

 

"Are you done staring at your phone yet?" Sherlock queried, breaking John from his reverie. John started, hastily placing the phone back on the arm of his chair. "Waiting for a text?"

 

"What? No," John shook his head. "Just...remembering the first time we met."

 

Sherlock looked up, still touch typing. He smiled slightly, probably amused at John's sentimentality or something before focusing his attention on the laptop screen once more. Moments later, there was a loud hammering on the door, making both John and Sherlock jump. John flung his gaze to the door, instinct making him stand taller, ready for anything. Most clients were shown up by Mrs Hudson who didn't bash the door. However, Sherlock remained in his chair, eyes fixed on the door and a gleam in his eyes.

 

"Do come in, Greg," he called, leaning back into his cushion. John didn't bother feeling surprised that Sherlock knew who it was. The door swung open and Greg Lestrade burst in, face flushed from the cold outside and hair full of snow. He seemed breathless, inhaling deeply and pausing by the door frame before entering properly. When he got his breath back, he closed the door and then stuffed his hands deep into his coat pockets, eyeing Sherlock and John.

 

"Okay, something's up," John stated. "Sit down and tell us."

 

Several minutes later, John and Sherlock sat in their respective chairs opposite each other and Greg had taken up the client's chair, sitting with his knees pressed together and eyes darting from side to side as if he had bad news.He was shivering slightly, the winter wind having driven through his coat and into his bones. John had his notepad balanced on his knees and a pen between his fingers, ready to jot down important pieces of information.

 

"I don't think you'll need that," Greg said after a beat, nodding at John's notepad.

 

"Why not?" John flipped his notepad closed and tapped his pen on his chin."That's sort of what I do. You know, take notes?"

 

"I'm telling you, you won't need it," Greg assured him, so John, curiosity fully piqued, put his notepad and pen to one side, giving Greg his undivided attention. Sherlock was gazing at Greg, eyes scanning him and seeing everything that Sherlock saw. Stains on shirts, creases in strange places, out of place hairs...

 

"So tell us," Sherlock said, finally blinking and steepling his fingers under his chin. "What has caused you to drop a case you were already looking into to come and see us?"

 

"How'd you know I - you know what? It doesn't matter," Greg rolled his eyes. "It's not a case."

 

"Then why are you here?" Sherlock spoke slowly, imperiously, placing pauses that were almost too long between each word. Greg seemed to struggle with his words and John, despite being far less amazingly intuitive that Sherlock, knew it was something much more personal than a strange oddity unsolved by Scotland Yard.

 

"What happened, Greg?" John asked quietly, leaning forwards a little and resting his elbows on his knees so he could place his chin on his hands. It wasn't normal for Greg Lestrade to struggle with his words and it certainly wasn't normal for him to be unable to vocalize his thoughts but today, he was struggling. Finally, he heaved a deep breath and began his story.

 

"We were called out to a pub brawl last night, just a petty thing involving civilians and too much booze. Lots of bruises, a couple of cuts and some blood, you know? We pulled in the instigators and we had three big fellas and a woman."

 

"A woman?" Sherlock frowned. "Statistically unlikely but continue."

 

"I know," Greg nodded. "She looked like she'd seen hell before the brawl though so we weren't really surprised she'd been involved. No one in the pub knew who she was; apparently she'd just walked in earlier that evening and got angry later on with the blokes for calling her sweetheart. So, when we were talking to her at the station, we asked for ID." Greg paused, gathering his breath. "She's from the Royal Air Force, a fighter jet pilot, a captain of a crack shot team used to sort out the targets no one else wants to hit."

 

"And that interests us, why?" Sherlock squinted slightly at Greg, though John could tell the that woman's resume had ignited a little flame of interest in him.

 

"Because of her name," Greg was looking right at John now and didn't look happy to pass on this information. "Harry Watson."


	8. Harry

John and Harry had never got on, even before the drinking started. They just didn't see eye to eye and that was that. Then, when Harry had taken to drowning her sorrows in a bottle, John couldn't bear to look at her. Around a month before John had met Sherlock, they'd sat down and had a big talk about trying to get Harry clean. However, the terms in which they had departed hadn't been pretty. John could recall the fight well; it was etched forever in his mind for what he'd said to her, telling her she would never be any Watson worth their salt because she didn't care about anyone but herself. He'd told her that she didn't deserve the time people gave her. That was a moment that John Watson was not proud of. How could he be? He had turned his sister away instead of helping her. Since then, they'd exchanged very brief conversation over the phone which never ended well and John hadn't known where she was. The guilt that had consumed him for so long had been tamped down by being with Sherlock but now it rose up like bile in his throat. Harry was in London, sitting in a police cell in Scotland Yard. John could hardly believe, thought it might have been some cruel joke until Greg handed over her ID. Her face, hard to pick out in the tiny thumbnail photograph was different, so much different than when he had last seen her many years ago. And her credentials had changed from 'zero-chance-of-reforming-alcoholic' to Captain Harry Watson of the Royal Air Force, leading a crew of crack shot fighter jet pilots. John didn't know much more because he was still sitting in his chair at 221B, staring at Harry's ID card.

 

"John?" Sherlock spoke quietly, concerned. John knew he ought to say something but this was what he had least expected. He was just getting his life back on track! Just figuring out what Sherlock meant to him and what he meant to Sherlock and how they'd express it and now...this. It felt wrong, terribly wrong to resent this moment but John couldn't help it. He might have been a bad big brother but she hadn't exactly been a great little sister either, though he knew that didn't justify anything.

 

"John, are you alright?"

 

"I'm...fine," John traced Harry's face on the ID card and finally looked up. Sherlock was watching him carefully, assessing his mental state, wondering if he might need something. Yeah, John needed something. A stiff whisky. Or a hug.

 

"No, you're not," Sherlock told him.

 

"John, we'll deal with this, okay?" Greg sat awkwardly, twisting his fingers together and clearly hating that he'd had to tell John the news. He knew about Harry's problems and knew how much it hurt John.

 

"No, no, it's fine," John said, tucking the ID card into his pocket and making his mind up right then and there. No more ignoring his family. He'd done that for far too long, pretending that his sister's problems were not his own. He'd also hidden from the judgment she gave him whenever they met; he'd run off to the army and left his family behind to worry, not returning phone calls. He'd just...left, unable to handle sitting around doing nothing with his life. He'd needed adrenaline. He'd needed danger.

 

"John," Sherlock rose from his chair and stood in front of John, laying his thin hands on John's shoulders, attracting John's gaze. "John, I'm here, okay?"

 

"Okay," John breathed deeply, calming himself. "Okay."

 

Greg glanced between them and John could tell that he was trying to figure out their dynamic which had obviously changed since he'd last been in the flat. But he didn't ask, preferring to climb out of his chair and nod once at the boys.

 

"I need to get back to the station," he said quietly. "I'll tell whoever's on duty to let you into the cell block."

 

Once Greg was gone, John sagged, no longer needing to throw up his soldier's facade. Sherlock knelt before him, still holding his shoulders, and they just stayed like that, breathing. John had no idea how he was going to handle this. He wasn't equipped to deal with family. His family with Mary and Rosie and Sherlock had been so complicated that he didn't know how to go about working with a family which was complicated in a different way.

 

"I don't know what to do," John mumbled after a while. Sherlock didn't say a word. Perhaps he understood that he could offer no advice here. He didn't exactly have a model family either. Then again, John mused, what was a model family? Once with a mummy and a daddy who loved each other very much and two children who always got along and were always there for each other? And the two children didn't run off to join the army and air force or take to the bottle or start solving crimes with sociopaths. John's mum and dad had loved each other very much. He knew that. But Harry and John had destroyed their family in the end. John felt culpable for everything, being the eldest. Running through events in his mind, regretting so much of what he had said, knowing that he could never take any of it back but also knowing that he had to try and make things right.

 

"We need to go to the station," John swallowed hard. "I need...I need to talk to her."

 

"Okay," Sherlock said, releasing John's shoulders and standing to his full height before offering his hand to John. John took it, allowing Sherlock to pull him up. "John? Don't be too hard on yourself. You don't deserve that."

 

John didn't even look at him. "Yes, I do."

 

Both men dressed in their winter outer layers in silence, John trying to figure out what he was going to say to Harry and Sherlock making sure John wasn't freaking out too much. As John knotted his scarf around his neck, he noticed out of the corner of his eye that Sherlock was simply staring at him. Not analyzing him or anything, just staring. John wondered what he was thinking.

 

Once they had their coats, scarves, gloves and shoes on, they left the flat and clattered down the stairs. John knocked on Mrs Hudson's door, having to wait only a moment for her to arrive. She noticed the look on his face right away.

 

"Are you okay, John?" she asked.

 

"Could you please watch over Rosie?" John felt terrible, even as he said it. He ought to take her, stop handing her to Mrs Hudson when something came up but the truth was, he didn't want Harry knowing he had a daughter. Not yet. The resentful streak in him didn't want Harry to share in the wonder of having a small human in their life. John wondered if there was something wrong with him. Mrs Hudson nodded at once.

 

"Of course I can, dearie," she told him. "When will you be back?"

 

She seemed to understand that this wasn't just a case the boys were rushing off to. Mrs Hudson had this kind of parental intuition that John just didn't understand. Something told her not to ask about whatever was going on and something else told her that it was personal. Very personal.

 

"Later this afternoon," John said. Mrs Hudson nodded again and then bustled up the stairs to the boy's flat. John stuffed his hands into his pockets and followed Sherlock out the front door. They stood on Baker Street among the snow, waiting for a taxi to flag down. Sherlock flung out an arm to hail one and they climbed in, Sherlock telling the driver where they wanted to go. John sat, hunched, in his seat, staring out the window at the city rushing by and wondering if Harry even wanted to see him. He needed to fix this though. Because, at the end of the day, family was all you had. Yes, John had a new family but he also had his old family. Family was the one thing that you could not forsake. He found himself glancing at Sherlock who was uncharacteristically quiet, gazing at the same spot on the seat. Sherlock and Rosie were his new family. Sherlock was more than family. He always had been. But now Harry was here...John worked his jaw, still having no idea what to say to her when they met. And so the taxi sloshed through the snow to Scotland Yard.

 

It wasn't difficult to get clearance to the cells; Greg had told the on duty officer to be expecting them so they simply got waved down the stairs. There was no backing out now. John lead the way, breathing deeply so he could stay calm and reasonable. Whatever state Harry was in, he needed to keep an open mind and take care of her in the ways he hadn't done in so long. When she first found the bottle, he'd tried to help her, spent hours with her, threw away all the booze in the house and swore to help her. But he soon realized that she didn't want his help and that's how the real fighting started. Not just siblings having a spat but real, grown up fighting. The fighting that had torn the Watson's apart.

 

"Sir?" an officer standing at the foot of the stairs held out a hand to stop them.

 

"I'm here to see Harry Watson," John spoke without a tremor in his tone, even in his shocked state still managing to sound as though he was pulling rank. "Detective Inspector Lestrade said that it wouldn't be a problem?"

 

"Of course, sir," the officer said, lowering his arm to allow them access. "Cell number thirteen. I'll let you in."

 

As John followed the officer down the corridor, he could hear muffled voices every now and then, giving him clues as to who the inmates were. Common drunks and thieves. And Harry was among them. The officer stopped outside cell thirteen and selected a key on his belt before sliding it into the hole and unlocking the door.

 

"I'm here," Sherlock whispered, standing right by John. "Anything you need, I'm here."

 

John squared his shoulders and steeled himself. "Thank you," he whispered back and then swung open the cell door. It flew back on its well-oiled hinges and bounced off the cell wall with a crash. John didn't flinch. Soldier. He was a soldier. But the occupant of the cell flinched. They jerked in their sitting position and seemed to awaken from a dazed passed out state. Harry was sitting against the wall of her cell by her bed, her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms encircling her legs. Her head was tilted back, leaning on the wall and she looked a right mess. Her dirty blonde hair had been hacked short and she was dressed in mucky army fatigues, though missing her jacket. The white singlet was stained and John suddenly winced, eyes widening somewhat. Curling down her arms were scars, twisting white lines decorating her skin.

 

"Harry," he said softly, moving forwards, his anger and fury melting away. At the end of the day, no matter how hurt he felt, no matter how mad she made him feel, she was still his sister and it ached in places he didn't know could ache to see her like this. Harry twitched and finally, properly came to, raising a hand to pass it over her face. When she drew her head away from the wall, John had to close his eyes momentarily, cutting off the view, trying to un-see. She had once had a very smooth and pretty face. Now it was marred, a thick, pale scar running from just above her left eyebrow, skating over the top of her eye (thankfully leaving her with her vision) and finishing just as it began to curve over the peak of her cheekbone. There was also fresh bruising, the colours of green, blue and grey blooming on both cheeks and the right side of her jaw. Blood had crusted around her jaw as well and John felt all the air escape his lungs. He opened his eyes, tilting his head to one side a little, perhaps hoping she might look a little better this way. It didn't help, of course, and John just stared. His little sister. His little sister looked broken beyond repair and John didn't know what to do.

 

"John?" her voice came out husky and low, carrying traces of a hangover. "Is that you?"

 

John didn't hesitate anymore. He strode over the concrete floor and crouched down in front of her, reaching out to touch the bruises. "Yes, Harry, it's me."

 

Harry groaned, opening her eyes wide and blinking heavily several times. "I thought I might be dreaming," she said. "But you're here. You came."

 

"Of course I came," John's voice was trembling now and he couldn't help it. From behind him, he heard the click of Sherlock's shoes. Then he felt his hand resting gently on his shoulder. Support. That's all he needed. It was everything he needed.

 

"You never came before," Harry sounded so childlike in that moment, so desperate for John that he felt as if he had been hit in the chest with something heavy. He saw, in that second, the little girl who sat at the breakfast table with her pigtails and spoon of honey, telling John he looked funny. He saw the teenager who told her parents she didn't like boys, hoping she still might be loved. He saw her watching out the window as he hoisted his rucksack onto his shoulder, leaving for the army. He saw the young woman with the bottles in her hands and a wedding ring on her finger. And he saw her throwing her wedding ring to one side, tears streaming down her face because she'd screwed up again. He saw Harry as she lost all she loved around her and he sat back on his heels, breathing too hard, much to hard.

 

"John," Sherlock crouched beside him. "John, it's okay."

 

"It's not okay," John groaned.

 

"No," Harry spoke up, voice bouncing off the walls. "But it is what it is."

 

John stopped staring at the ground and fixed his gaze on Harry who was smiling ever so slightly.

 

"That was your favourite saying," she told him. "You used to say that when something bad happened when we were little. It is what it is."

 

"Oh Harry," John said and reached out with both hands now, pulling her into an embrace. Sherlock stepped back, watching. As John held his sister, he realized she was shaking. Crying. Harry Watson, the girl who tried so hard not to cry was sobbing openly now, her tears soaking into John's shoulder and John had to clench his teeth hard. "Let's get you out of here."


	9. Broken

Harry didn't get to sit in the client's chair right away. John insisted instead, that she took up a chair in the kitchen while he gave her a once over and checked that her bruising wasn't covering anything worse. She sat in the chair, suffering John's ministrations with good grace while Sherlock stood between the kitchen and the sitting room, watching carefully. He hadn't said much since the cell. Once Harry had stopped crying, they had managed to get her released and John and Sherlock promised to keep an eye on her. Paperwork was signed and then they left Scotland Yard to get a cab back to 221B. During the ride, no one spoke. Sherlock turned his attention to his phone, Harry closed her eyes and looked as if she were still fighting off her hangover and John watched Harry, wondering what on earth to do. Now, as John rinsed his cloth to finish dabbing at Harry's jaw, he figured he had better try for some conversation. That was what you were supposed to do, wasn't it?

 

"So, you when did you get into the air force?" he asked, turning back to his sister and wiping the last of the crusted blood from her skin. John had had no idea that the occasions he had spoken to her over the phone, he'd been actually out of the country with the Air Force, knocking targets from the sky! She'd kept that well hidden. For a moment, she was quiet. Then she cleared her throat.

 

"Two months after I left Clara," she said. Suddenly, at the mention of Clara, Sherlock was very much interested in the conversation.

 

"Yes, I've always wondered, why did you leave Clara?" he stepped properly into the kitchen and leaned on the table, spreading his palms across the surface and eyeing Harry.

 

"Excuse me?" Harry peered past John so she could get a better look at Sherlock. "I'm sorry but I don't exactly know who you are."

 

John winced slightly as Sherlock developed a slightly hurt expression on his face. "Uh, Harry, this is Sherlock Holmes. I mean...you know. My..."

 

"I know you've talked to her briefly over the years," Sherlock accused John, now standing up very tall and straight, an injured expression on his face. "Just quick phone calls, mind you, but you didn't tell her about me?"

 

"Funny enough, it didn't come up," John shook his head at Sherlock who continued to look hurt. It wasn't like him and Harry had had in depth conversations about friends and best friends and all! Harry simply looked confused.

 

"Yeah, but who is he?" Harry said. John hesitated, wondering what Sherlock was now. He was more than a friend, that much was obvious. Then, a sly smirk crossed his face and he winked at Harry.

 

"My boyfriend," John said. All at once, Sherlock began spluttering and coughing and had to dash to the sink to fetch a glass of water. Sniggering, John threw the slightly damp cloth at Sherlock which hit the middle of his back and slid to the floor, leaving a damp mark behind it. "Settle down you drama queen," he said. "Jesus, anyone would think it was some kind of curse word!"

 

"Oh shut up," Sherlock finished his glass of water and turned to face John and Harry, leaning on the bench and trying to look like he wasn't bothered.

 

"Well, you have changed," Harry remarked, looking at her brother and quirking an eyebrow. "Apparently, I'm not the only gay-as-a-picnic-basket Watson anymore."

 

"Oh shut up," John told her, tossing a grin at Sherlock who rolled his eyes in exasperation. The mood lightened somewhat, John now felt much more at ease with the situation. Having made sure Harry didn't have any terrible recent injuries that might need to be seen by a hospital, he now waved everyone into the sitting room and pointed Harry to the client's chair. Sherlock dropped into his seat, face relaxing now that he was in familiar territory. John lowered himself into his chair and eyed Harry. She looked better now, though the bruising hadn't gone down and the scar over her left eye still looked terrible. He wondered how it had happened.

 

"So tell us," John said, leaning back in his chair. "How on earth did you end up sitting in a cell in Scotland Yard?"

 

"Got into a fight," Harry raised her eyebrows.

 

"I mean..." John trailed off, hesitating. Sherlock didn't offer any words to help him along so John cleared his throat and tried again. "I mean, you know, you were in the air force? What happened?"

 

"Oh," Harry nodded slowly. "I see. You want to know...right."

 

There was a silence in which John saw how much it hurt Harry to relive certain moments in her mind. Sherlock had steepled his fingers under his chin and was listening carefully. Finally, Harry gathered her thoughts and began her story.

 

"When I left Clara, things weren't going so well, you know? I hit the booze a lot and, yeah, kinda lost my grip on reality for a while. Then some joker in a pub was talking about the air force and I thought, you know, why not go there, dry out and actually do something with my pathetic and miserable life. And everything was going well. It was going good. I dried out, got promoted, flew in a team. Everything was going so well. I was a bloody captain! And then it all turned to hell."

 

Harry stopped talking, gritting her teeth together, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. She was a broken human being, John knew that even Sherlock could see it. She knotted her fingers together and stared at her lap before continuing, voice a little jerky and disjointed.

 

"I had a really good mate, my best friend, Damien. We flew in the same team, our little crack shot team who did the stuff no one else wanted to do. We were the best at our job and we could be relied on. You know what that's like, John? To be relied on?"

 

"I do," John nodded. He did know. He'd been a captain once too. And a doctor.

 

"Yeah, well, we were good. Then orders came for a strike on some rebel base that required our expertise. I pulled my team of five together and we flew in, scoped it out. That was when it all went to hell. We'd been lead into a trap and before we knew it, there was gunfire everywhere and we panicked. I tried to keep a handle on the situation but it just flew out of control. We were being hit from all directions; planes above us, people below us and the target still hadn't been hit. And then Damien went down. Some bastard above him dropped an explosive on his wing and he just went down. He died, blown up into lots of little pieces. My best friend died that day. But we still hadn't hit the goddamn target and by now, my team had splintered and I knew that Damien would want to hit that target, only I'd lost control of my right wing so I was going down anyway. So, I directed my plane at the target and hoped for the best. Course, I didn't bloody die and Damien did and it should have been me because I was the captain. You know? I'm supposed to go down! I woke up during the night in the wreckage of the plane with a wicked pain on my face and everywhere else, could hardly see through the blood and darkness, and walked my sorry ass back to base. Yeah, Damien was dead. We got the target but...he was dead. I couldn't...I didn't know what to do. I ended up getting pissed as hell because I couldn't think of anything better, and fired off a bunch of shots in the air sometime one night. Course, that got me kicked from the team and flown back to London on the next jet. And here I am."

 

The silence following Harry's story was broken only by her small sob and John's rapid exhalations. He could remember his own team in Afghanistan, the hell they went through. The bullet. He stared at her, watching each jerk of her shoulders as she tried to keep a lid on her emotions. Gritting his teeth, he tried to compare her to the girl he once knew. He couldn't. She'd seen war. She had seen death. They were more alike than he was willing to admit.

 

"I'm so sorry," John said after a good, long while. Sherlock's eyes flew open and he stared at John, incredulous.

 

"Sorry?" he said under his breath. "You've done nothing?"

 

"That's the problem," John bit his lip and then took a deep breath. "Harry, we need to get you properly dried out and on the right track."

 

Harry looked up from her lap and laughed a little. "Yeah? And what's your grand plan, big brother? Piss off to the army again so you don't have to deal with your embarrassing little sister? Send me to my room?"

 

"Harry, I..." John worked his jaw. "I know I haven't been a very good brother and god knows you deserved better but-"

 

"Not a very good big brother?" Harry stood up, her face disbelieving. "Don't you remember the last time we had a proper conversation?"

 

John bowed his head. "Yes."

 

"You told me I would never be good-"

 

"I know what I said!" John's voice rose to a shout which propelled him from his chair so he stood, legs shoulder width apart, facing Harry with anger blazing on his face. "I know what I said! Okay? You think I'm proud of that? You think I'm proud of the man I've been to you?"

 

"Oh don't start that with me," Harry spat. "It's always about you. And you said I was selfish."

 

"Don't you dare," John was breathing hard now, fists clenching. But Harry was angry too, wearing the same face John wore. The Watson face of fury.

 

"You always were mummy's favourite little boy!" Harry shouted. "And what about me? Huh? You despised me! I was never good enough for you, was I, John? God, I was always second best!"

 

"Shut up!" John roared. His limbs were tingling and his face felt drained of blood. He had never been so intensely angry, so unbelievably furious in his entire life. "Just shut up! I KNOW WHAT I HAVE DONE! I KNOW WHO I AM TO YOU! DON'T YOU DARE THINK I DON'T KNOW THAT! BUT WHERE WERE YOU? I'M NOT THE ONLY ONE TO BLAME HERE! WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU WHEN I NEEDED YOU? DON'T PRETEND I'M THE ONLY BAD GUY HERE!"

 

"YOU SHUT UP!" screamed Harry, spitting with rage. "YOU WERE NEVER THERE WHEN I NEEDED YOU! NEVER! AND I-"

 

"ENOUGH!" Sherlock had risen from his chair and stood, towering over both Watson's with his pale, narrow face filled with terrible fury. His hair, in all its dark curls, flew away from his face like a black halo and his coat was spread behind him. A dreadful silence echoed through the flat, seeping into John like the coldest water in the world. For a moment, the three stood, locked in a battle of silence, trading eye contact and anger flooding the air. Harry, still dressed in her army clothes with her dog tags resting on her chest, had her arms by her sides and a red face while John seemed frozen in place, face pale and body numb.

 

"You bastard," Harry said finally, voice very quiet. She turned on her heel and strode from the flat.

 

"No, wait," John's voice creaked out and he stumbled forwards, trying to chase after Harry, bring her back but his feet tangled together and he staggered, tipping forwards. Suddenly, Sherlock was there, arms winding around John and holding him. "Harry!"

 

But Harry was gone in a whirlwind of fury. John sagged in Sherlock's arms, tears falling freely and soaking into his shirt. He moaned like an animal in pain and it sank right into Sherlock's bones. He slowly lowered John to the floor and knelt with him, just holding him as if it might stop him from physically breaking. John curled like a child into Sherlock, seeking solace with the one man who might understand.

 

"John," Sherlock said quietly but didn't know what to say after that. John squeezed his eyes shut tightly, perhaps hoping it might stop the tears. But nothing did. They kept falling and John had never felt like more of a failure. He had never felt like a more terrible human being and a failure as a brother. John Watson was broken and Sherlock didn't know how to put him back together. At least Mary had given him tools, ways to help John. But she wasn't there this time. Not this time. And Sherlock was helpless. All he could do was hold John, hold him tight. And there they stayed, Sherlock kneeling on the floor with his coat splayed out behind him, holding John to his chest and pleading in silence that John would be okay.


	10. Kissing And Dragons

John ought to have known that trying to help Harry would have been a total fiasco but he had hoped, somehow, that this time might be different. He'd hoped they might have been able to put aside the past and move on with the future. But there was history between them, a lot of muddied waters and John now understood what it had been like and was still like between Sherlock and Mycroft. Mycroft once told John that there was too much history between him and his brother and John had scorned it at the time. Now, he wasn't so sure he'd be quite so disbelieving. John hated himself for what had happened. He hated himself because he'd failed Harry yet again. It sat on his shoulders as he put Rosie to bed for the night. It ate at him as he sat in his chair in front of the fire while Sherlock read a book. It was consuming him and he didn't know what to do. 

 

"Sherlock?" John watched as Sherlock closed his book with a snap and put it aside, already looking intently at him.

 

"Yes, John?"

 

"What do I do?" his voice was quiet, begging Sherlock to have an answer like he always did. He was a genius, after all, and John needed him to know what to do. Sherlock pressed his lips together into a thin, pale line and John knew he was trying to figure out how to say that he didn't know what to do.

 

"Don't worry," John shook his head. Sherlock wasn't a genius when it came to matters of the heart. "Forget it."

 

"I can't," Sherlock whispered, slowly climbing from his seat. "I can't because...look at yourself, John. It's eating you away, can't you see? And I can't let it do that."

 

He stood, illuminated by the fire and John felt a strange urge rising in his chest, compelling him to stand up. Though he was so much shorter than Sherlock, they maintained eye contact, John pleading silently with Sherlock. He needed him. Of course, Sherlock could read that clear as day and it registered in his eyes. Slowly, as if in a trance, Sherlock reached out with both thin hands and cupped John's face. John exhaled deeply, swallowing hard, his pulse sky rocketing at the gentle touch.

 

"Please help me, Sherlock," John said in a very small voice. He was so small, not just in physical stature but in how he viewed himself now. Sherlock couldn't bear it, he couldn't stand seeing his John like this. He moved forwards, still cradling John's face in his hands, holding him like something precious, something that might break at any given moment, even though he knew John was strong, stronger than so many. A solider. He was breathing shallowly now, nervous when he thought of what he was about to instigate. He was not a seasoned professional. He'd had no practice. He had no idea what he was doing. But John needed him. And when John Watson needed him, he was there. Sherlock tilted his head down so it was level with John's and John's eyes widened. They were a lovely blue-grey, Sherlock noticed. And he pulled John that little bit closer so their lips were touching. All these years of refusing to love, hating how vulnerable it made him and now, now he knew what he was missing out on. Vulnerability made him seem suddenly much more alive, awake to the world that John was in. Sherlock slid his hands down from John's face, curved around his solid shoulders to his back to hold him even closer. John wound his arms around Sherlock, his fingers reaching up to tangle in the dark curls. There was no air between them now and once, Sherlock would have shoved the other person away, feel disgusted with himself for showing this weakness but now it was he who eliminated the space between them and realized that John wasn't the only one who needed this. His mouth opened slightly in time with John's and they were kissing like the world around them didn't exist. The thing about John Watson was that he wasn't selfish like Harry accused him of being. He was, in fact, the most selfless human being Sherlock had ever encountered. He made you look at your morals and reassess them. No, he wasn't perfect but no one could be. But he was completely selfless, willing to do anything for anyone and he could save a life in more ways than one. Sherlock loved him so fully and unconditionally then, realized it was so much more than anyone ever described, an inferno in his heart that was indescribable. Sherlock thought he knew the world, he thought he could see everything. But he had never seen this. He had never encountered anything like this before and it scared the living daylights out of him. But it also sharpened him. He knew, as he kissed John, that he would do anything for John. He knew that already but now it seemed inescapable. He was utterly, totally and irrevocably bound to John in ways that no one could possibly understand. They had been through hell and found their way back again and Sherlock loved the other man beyond compare. So, his hands holding John and his lips working in a manner he wasn't accustomed, he swore to himself that he would show John that. John deserved nothing less from him. Because John was John. And that was that.

 

John was ablaze. Kissing Sherlock was new. Yes, he had done it once before but this was something else. Sherlock was kissing him in a way he'd never known Sherlock could even think, let alone do. John's fingers knotted into Sherlock's hair. He did love those curls. Suddenly they were moving, John needing to move, walking Sherlock backwards to the wall until they could walk no more. There was a pause where they had to break away for air and John found himself staring right into Sherlock's stormy blue eyes.

 

"John, I love you," Sherlock spoke in low, hushed tones. "To the ends of the earth and back again."

John didn't know what to say but it didn't matter because they were kissing again and John had brought his hands around to trace Sherlock's face, slide his index finger across Sherlock's tight jaw and down his neck. Sherlock shivered and John didn't go any further. There were boundaries and John respected every single inch of them. He didn't care that they wouldn't join like other couples because it didn't matter. He loved Sherlock like nothing else and judging by Sherlock's behavior, those feelings were very much requited.

 

"Sherlock," he said into the kissing. Sherlock drew his head back a little and eyed John.

 

"Yes?"

 

"I love you too."

 

The following morning saw John rise early. Rosie had woken up crying so he bundled her up in his arms and took her downstairs where they sat by the fire and John quietly began reciting his favourite childhood story about a quest to reclaim a mountain from a fire breathing dragon. Rosie loved it, right up until he got to the bit where everyone might get eaten by trolls. She had a look of serious concern in her eyes and John had to reassure her that it wasn't real.It was just a story. She was smart, he thought fondly. She wasn't a proper baby anymore; she was verging on crawling and then they'd be in trouble! Rosie chewed her finger thoughtfully and John kissed her forehead.

 

"Morning John," Sherlock appeared in the sitting room in his dressing gown, yawning and ruffling his hair.

 

"Morning Sherlock," John replied. "Sleep well?"

 

"Very well," he said and shuffled into the kitchen to make tea. John, sitting cross legged by the fire with Rosie in his lap, thought about Harry. He had to do something. He owed it to her and he owed it to everyone around him. Rosie began gurgling again so John continued reciting the story.

 

"'Is that The Mountain?' asked Bilbo in a solemn voice, looking at it with round eyes. He had never seen a thing that looked so big before. 'Of course not!' said Balin. 'That is only the beginning of The Misty Mountains, and we have to get through or over, or under those somehow, before we can come into the Wilderland beyond. And it is a deal of away even from the other side of them to the Lonely Mountain in the east where Smaug lies on our treasure.'"

 

Sherlock had entered the sitting room with a tray bearing tea and placed it down beside John before joining him on the floor.

 

"How do you remember all of that?" Sherlock wanted to know. John laughed. He could hear the mild jealousy colouring Sherlock's tone.

 

"It was my favourite story as a kid," he explained. "I used to read it all the time. I guess it just got branded into my brain."

 

"Well, it's an impressive waste of brain space," Sherlock took a sip of tea.

 

"Says the man who listens to it whenever I retell it!" John shook his head, grinning. Sherlock put his cup down and folded his arms.

 

"Just because I like Smaug," he said, rather petulantly, reminding John of a small child.

 

"I prefer Bilbo, if I'm honest with you," John confessed. Then he eyed Sherlock who was flexing his fingers. "Go on, do it."

 

"Do what?" Sherlock asked, feigning innocence.

 

"Go on," John said again, swiveling around with Rosie so their backs faced the fire and they could see the rest of the sitting room. "I know you want to."

 

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock said but climbed to his feet and flared his dressing gown out behind him like wings. Then he began swooping around the room, lowering his voice until it growled like the dragon he was impersonating.

 

"Hello little Rosie," he growled, gliding closer to John and Rosie. Rosie burst into peels of giggles and reached out to grab at Sherlock who darted back, baring his teeth. "I've come to eat you up!"

 

"Oh no!" John cried out, half laughing himself and tickling Rosie's ribs. She giggled even harder and Sherlock dived in, sliding to his knees and grabbing Rosie. He wheeled around and held Rosie so she flew with him, legs kicking happily and arms flailing.

 

"I'm taking you to my mountain, Rosie!" Sherlock snarled as Rosie laughed delightedly. John climbed to his feet.

 

"Don't worry, I'll rescue you!" he shouted and, still laughing, began to chase Sherlock around the sitting room. Rosie was in fits of laughter and Sherlock, who was enjoying himself immensely, bundled Rosie up into his dressing gown wings and stopping running.

 

"She's mine now," he hissed, grinning at John.

 

"Never!" John said and leaped at Sherlock, grabbing Rosie's soft form under the dressing gown. Sherlock allowed his wings to unfurl and John to take Rosie. "Aha! I've got you!"

 

"Nooooooo!" Sherlock dragon growled and swirled away before dropping his dressing gown to his sides and ruffling his hair. He cleared his throat, grinning.

 

"Still a child at heart, aren't you?" John winked at him. Rosie cooed and then the three of them returned to their places by the fire. As Sherlock crossed his legs, John couldn't help leaning over and pecking the other man on the cheek. Sherlock smirked a little. John loved this familiarity between them, the growing casual affectionate exchanges. He was a real sucker for intimacy and this was beyond perfect. As he gazed into the crackling fire, he thought of Harry. She'd once had that with Clara but now she had no one.

 

"Thinking about Harry?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow and looking sideways at John.

 

"Yeah," said John. He gently rocked Rosie and she blew bubbles, gripping John's shirt sleeve. "I need to help her, to get to her."

 

Sherlock sighed deeply and put his cup down. "I know."

 

"But I don't know how," John said. "I've screwed it up so many times over the years."

 

Sherlock was quiet, breathing deeply and thinking with his eyes closed. Every now and then, he'd frown a little and shake his head. Finally, when he opened his eyes, he nodded once, as if confirming his thoughts to himself. "All you can do is try again."

 

"What?" said John.

 

"I'm not an expert on human nature," Sherlock said, scratching his chin. "But I do know this; the more you try, the more likely you are to succeed."

 

"Sherlock, I've been trying for years and it always ends in tears. Literally."

 

Sherlock eyed him closely and then he set his shoulders. "My conclusion is this: she is vulnerable, more vulnerable than before. She said things and you said things yesterday that neither of you have ever said to each other, I think. So, she's very vulnerable at the moment. This is going to make it easier for you to get through to her. John, you need to try again and you need to try again soon, before you lose the chance."

 

"Are you sure?" John asked, passing a strand of Rosie's hair through his thumb and index finger.

 

"Of course not," Sherlock shrugged, lost. "But it sounded good."

 

At this, John laughed. "You're impossible."

 

"You should also take Rosie. People love babies," Sherlock added, reaching over to boop Rosie's nose gently. She giggled and grabbed his finger, tugging it to her mouth. "Uh, no, no, Rosie, not my finger!"

 

It was too late. The finger was in the mouth and Sherlock cringed as she slobbered all over it. When she released it, he examined it for a second and turned his mouth up.

 

"Babies," he sniffed and wiped his finger on his dressing gown. "Apparently, people love them."

 

"Aw, shut up," John rolled his eyes. "I know you love her. You're a softie,really."

 

Sherlock climbed to his feet and stood grandly. "I am going to get dressed."

 

He flounced out of the room, leaving John and Rosie to giggle together at Sherlock's dramatic behavior. He really could be quite ridiculous sometimes. Okay, a lot of the time. John shook his head in mock exasperation as he got up and carted Rosie to their bedroom where he dressed her in some warm and cute clothes that he had spent hours deliberating on one day at the baby clothes shop. Then he dressed himself in proper clothes as opposed to his 'bumming-around-the-flat' clothes. Once he was dressed, he fetched the baby sling that meant Rosie snuggled into his chest and took it and Rosie downstairs to the sitting room where Sherlock was waiting, dressed in the usual Sherlock manner. He was just fastening his scarf around his neck. John slid Rosie into the baby sling and remarked to Sherlock that she was getting a bit big for it. Then he attached it to himself, jiggled it a bit so it sat comfortably and slung his scarf around his neck.

 

"Let's go," he said and the trio left the flat to clatter down the stairs. Mrs Hudson poked her nose out from her flat.

 

"Ooo-ooo," she cooed. "You off out?"

 

"Yes," Sherlock replied, smiling at her. "Urgent business."

 

"Who was that woman from yesterday?" Mrs Hudson asked, leaning on her door frame. "Was she a client? She seemed a right mess."

 

"She's my sister," said John and strode to the front door, Sherlock in his wake. Mrs Hudson spluttered something about sisters and what on earth was he on about but before she could properly formulate her questions, they were gone, the door swinging shut behind them.

 

"Those boys," she said to herself, shaking her head and smiling fondly after them.

 

Outside, the snow had finally stopped falling but the sky remained a stubborn grey, refusing to let up and allow London to see some blue. Sherlock was about to hail a cab when he looked at John.

 

"Um, where are we going?" he asked. John smiled. Finally, he knew something Sherlock didn't.

 

"The only place Harry would go," he said. "The pub."


	11. We've Got Sherlock Holmes

"John, aren't there dozens of pubs in London?" Sherlock said as a taxi pulled up beside them. John flicked Sherlock another smirk. Gosh, he was doing well today; he ought to keep a tally!

 

"Yes, but Harry has this one pub she goes to when she's upset," John explained. "At least, unless her tastes have changed, but I rather think they haven't."

 

"Okay," said Sherlock, choosing not to point out how statistically unlikely that was, given the time that had passed and how much London had changed, and they climbed into the taxi. John leaned forwards and told the driver where to go. Rosie gurgled happily; she loved car rides and though she didn't get them often, she could remember them enough to point at the seats and make little bounces in her sling until John sat down properly. As they turned off Baker Street, Sherlock made a huffing sound like he did when something suddenly occurred to him. "Babies aren't really supposed to go into pubs, are they?"

 

"Nope," John said cheerfully. He looked sideways at Sherlock, grinning slyly. "Who said we were going in?"

 

Which left Sherlock baffled and John feeling very pleased with himself indeed. This might need to get written into his blog! He could picture the title already : "Sherlock Has No Idea." No, that would sound tacky. John shrugged internally. He'd think of something. The taxi veered onto another street, wound through some traffic, switched lanes twice and turned onto a very winding intersection, each sharp turn making Rosie giggle as she rocked in her sling. At last, after several more stomach rolling turns, the taxi pulled up outside a 24-hour pub with a rocket ship on the sign crooked sign. 

 

"Thanks," John said, paying the fare as he climbed out, Sherlock trailing along in his wake. They stood outside the pub, peering through the window at the people inside who were mostly blokes sitting at tables drinking beer after beer. It had a slightly hazy look about it, as if the people inside had been leaking mist from all the booze they'd been consuming. The lights were dim and the atmosphere mildly depressing at this time of day.

 

"I don't see her," Sherlock said, cupping his hands around his face and pressing on the glass. It misted up and he swiped his hand across it, making it smeary and worse. John strained his eyes to see through the rippling glass and finally spotted the bartender, a tall and solidly built man with a bushy beard to match his caterpillar eyebrows. John waved and made a rapid sign with his fingers. Sherlock blinked, then frowned, eyebrows colliding. John knew he was bursting to ask what on earth was going on but holding it back so he could maintain his intelligent persona and try to one up John after all the one upping John was doing. After a moment or two, the bartender stepped outside the pub, the door banging closed behind him, cutting off the brief flood of unintelligible babble that had followed him out.

 

"Hello John," he said in a very friendly manner, clapping John on the back and then staring at Rosie with mild disbelief. "Who's this?"

 

"This is my daughter, Rosie," said John, ruffling Rosie's hair. "And this is my...my boyfriend, Sherlock."

 

"John!" Sherlock hissed in a panic but John ignored him. The bartender clapped his hands together, clearly delighted.

 

"Daughter, aye! And boyfriend! Well, well, well. I guess you're here for Harry?"

 

"That's about right," John said. "She in?"

 

"You bet your life she is," the bartender nodded, resigned. "Been in since late last night, drinking on and off but mostly just sitting in the corner, sometimes playing pool with some of the lads. I'll go and get her."

 

"Thanks Toby," John said and Toby left, taking with him the smell of old beer and spilled spirits. Meanwhile, Sherlock was looking mildly distressed, wringing his hands and staring at John with wide eyes which served to accentuate his cheekbones.

 

"You can't just tell anyone and everyone that we're..." Sherlock trailed off, voice getting higher and higher in his anxiety.

 

"What?" John asked, amused.

 

"That we're...a thing!" Sherlock finally managed to say, the words flying from his lips.

 

"Oh, come on," John rolled his eyes. "That's what people do, isn't it? But if it makes you uncomfortable, we can keep it quiet."

 

"It's just...I'm, well, not...I don't know," Sherlock stuttered. He cleared his throat. "So um, how do you know this Toby fellow so well?"

 

Not surprised but a little startled by the sudden change in topic, John said, "We made a deal a long time ago, way before I met you, that if Harry were to come here, he would fetch her for me. He doesn't like alcoholics much and was willing to help me out. Says he can't stand a bright young woman like her wasting her life at the pub. Nice bloke, Toby."

 

"Fair enough," Sherlock said, not quite making eye contact. John lowered his voice a little and moved closer to Sherlock, almost subconsciously eliminating the space between them.

 

"Look, seriously, I won't say anything about us being a thing if you don't want me to, okay?"

 

Sherlock was silent for a beat. Then he seemed to consider John for a moment, eyes flicking rapidly over him and assessing. He set his shoulders and stood a little taller. "No, it's fine. I guess I'm not at all used to this. It's...it's fine."

 

John nodded and then the pub door swung open to reveal Toby and Harry who was still wearing her army fatigues from yesterday, minus her jacket. John did wonder where it had gone. Harry looked livid and Toby looked as if he'd quite like to hit her.

 

"Thank you, Toby," John said quietly and Toby nodded curtly before letting go of Harry's upper arm and heading back into the pub. Harry stood in front of John and Sherlock, eyes a little dim but mouth a slash of anger.

 

"What the hell are you doing, John?" Harry demanded, clenching her fists at her sides.

 

"I am trying to help you," John said, folding his arms in front of him and protecting Rosie at the same time. It was a calculated move and it did what it was supposed to do; draw Harry's attention.

 

"What's that?" Harry asked curiously, almost unable to help herself.

 

"Oh, this is my daughter, Rosie," John said carelessly. "Rosie, meet Aunt Harry."

 

Harry was suddenly very quiet and her face morphed from angry to guilty. She stuffed her hands into her pockets and rolled backwards and forwards on the balls of her feet. When she opened her mouth, her voice creaked, lilting sideways, not because she was overly drunk but because she was trying not to cry. "I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry I didn't come to your wedding. I'm sorry I wasn't there when Rosie was born. I'm sorry I wasn't there when...Mary died. I'm sorry I've never been there. I'm sorry I'm a terrible sister and a terrible aunt. I'm sorry."

 

John worked his jaw, fighting off the urge to tell her how she had behaved. Instead, he stepped forwards and took Harry's hand, tugging it gently towards Rosie. Rosie, eyes wide at this new human being, flung a hand out and grabbed Harry's fingers. John let go and Rosie pulled, making Harry shuffle forwards until she was very close. Rosie gurgled and held Harry's fingers tightly, looking as if she might be examining them. Then she let them go but Harry didn't take her hand away. So John, after a second of deliberating, gave her an awkward hug, trying not to squish Rosie.

 

"I'm sorry too," he told her. When they parted, Harry was biting her lip. Then she raised her hand and stared at the fingers Rosie had grabbed.

 

"She's cute," Harry said finally. "She looks like you."

 

John laughed a little. "She looks like Mary."

 

"Harry," Sherlock spoke up, voice quiet and gentle. "I know what's it's like to be addicted to something, okay? And before you say you're not, I know what the symptoms look like. I can help you fight this. So, let me."

 

Harry seemed to struggle internally, shoulders curving in and then squaring. She stood up very straight, very tall (well, as tall as a Watson could) and looked John dead in the eyes but addressed her words to Sherlock. "It's a battle I'll always lose but I'll try."

 

"You won't lose," John said firmly. "Not this time."

 

"What makes you so sure?" Harry put her hands on her hips.

 

"Because this time," John inclined his head towards Sherlock. "We've got Sherlock Holmes."

 

Several hours after fetching Harry from the pub, John was making lunch. Or, he was trying to. He kept being distracted by Sherlock and Harry who were having a very serious conversation by the fire in the sitting room. Every now and then, Harry would make some indignant explanation but Sherlock would calm her with some quiet words. He was getting better at this, John thought as he checked on Rosie who was propped up by the cupboards at his feet, chewing on a soft prune John had decided to try her on. According to Google, he should be starting to offer her some solid foods. Not too solid, mind you, mushy stuff or stuff she could chew on. This parenting gig was complicated and John wasn't 100% sure he was doing it right but hang the rules! Rosie was turning out alright, he figured and if something wasn't going well, he knew he could consult Mrs Hudson. John gave the pasta a final stir before hoisting the pot off the stove and taking it to the sink where he drained the water out. He plonked the pot on the bench and then fetched the chicken and cheesy sauce in its pan from the other element on the stove. He tipped the chicken into the pasta, gave it all a big stir around and stepped back, satisfied. Hell yeah, he could be domestic! He fetched three bowls from the cupboard and served lunch. Then he picked up Rosie, settled her on his hip and headed into the sitting room.

 

"Lunch is ready," he called and Sherlock glanced back at him, shooting a kindly smile.

 

"Chicken?" he asked. He sniffed. "And...cheese? Pasta?"

 

"Screw you," John laughed. "I swear you've got a nose like a sniffer dog."

 

Sherlock looked pleased with himself and then patted Harry on her shoulder. "Come on."

 

Harry and Sherlock rose from the chairs by the fire and moved to the table where John had managed to get the bowls without spilling anything. He handed out cutlery and then slid Rosie into her highchair beside him.

 

"I didn't know you cooked, John," Harry said, tentatively stabbing a piece of pasta with her fork. She brought it up to her mouth and then sniffed.

 

"Hey, don't be mean. I've come a long way from the sausage disaster," John protested, taking a bite of pasta as proof. Harry shrugged and popped the piece of pasta into her mouth.

 

"All right then," she conceded. "You might not kill us this time."

 

As they all ate, John offered Rosie bits of pasta to slobber on. She seemed to love sucking the cheesy sauce off and then spitting out the actual pasta spiral. By the end of lunch, she had a small pile of pasta spirals on her highchair table and cheese on her chin. John used her bib to mop her face and then removed her from the highchair, placing her on the floor so she could roll around and find things to play with. He cleaned up the highchair and took the dishes away. Sherlock and Harry went back to their conversing by the fire and John started washing up. Suddenly, Sherlock was shouting at him from the sitting room, hollering at him to come quickly.

 

"What?" John called, flicking the tea towel over his shoulder and rushing into the sitting room. Sherlock just pointed and John followed his finger to where he was gesturing to. And there was Rosie, crawling across the floor to the coffee table. A massively broad smile split John's face and he hastened to grab his phone and snap some pictures.

 

"Oh my god," he said, watching in wonder as Rosie made it all the way to the coffee table, grabbing onto the leg in delight. Then she sagged a little, worn out from all the effort it had taken to crawl. It must have been a very enticing table leg. "Oh my god, Rosie, you clever girl!"

 

John rushed to Rosie and picked her up, swinging her around a little so she giggled. "Well done!" he praised, kissing her cheek. "Such a clever wee girl!"

 

Sherlock was grinning and began clapping. After a beat, Harry joined in, smiling fondly. John cradled Rosie who now looked ready for a nap, feeling like a very proud father. She was crawling! Rosie had started crawling! Rosie made some sleepy sound in her throat and rested her head on John's shoulder. He walked over to her nest by the fire and gently lowered her into it, making sure he didn't wake her. Then, after smiling broadly at Sherlock and Harry, he whipped the tea towel off his shoulder and waved it about like a flag.

 

"Our little girl, growing up!" he exclaimed in an excited but hushed tone. "Oh, Sherlock!"

 

Sherlock climbed up from his chair and crossed to John, pulling him into a tight embrace before kissing John on the neck. John grinned into Sherlock's shoulder.

 

"Congratulations, John," Sherlock whispered. John drew back for a moment and eyed Sherlock carefully, calculating his next words.

 

"Congratulations, Sherlock," John said.

 

"Pardon?" Sherlock frowned, shaking his head because he didn't understand.

 

"I said, congratulations," John was grinning again. "You dolt, I'm not the only one who's been a parent!"

 

And Sherlock, with a widening of his eyes, suddenly understood what John was getting at. He couldn't help a wide smile creasing his features and John grabbed his shoulders, pulling him forwards to kiss him.

 

"Cute!" Harry called from by the fire. John rolled his eyes as Sherlock began to blush.


	12. Dadda

Harry insisted on sleeping on the couch, despite both John and Sherlock offering their beds to her. She told them they'd already done so much for her and that they could argue about it in the morning. In truth, John was glad to be in bed. This past week had been a hectic mess of emotions, action and then Harry. Not to mention that Rosie had started crawling! Whenever he recalled it, he couldn't help a silly grin spreading over his face, even sprawled out in his bed. As the night breathed around him, he stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep. He was terribly tired but his mind just wouldn't shut up. He thought about the Moriarty imposter and wondered if Sherlock had come up with anything about him yet. He thought about Harry and how he was determined to help her and finally get her dry. He thought about Rosie, how proud he was and how he'd have to move lots of the things in the morning so she couldn't cause a calamity. And he thought about Sherlock. Gosh, when did he not think about Sherlock? John sighed deeply and realized that his mouth was very dry. He needed a drink of water. So he climbed out of bed and padded downstairs to the kitchen where he quietly filled a glass of water and then drank deeply, shuddering a little as the cold water slid down his throat and settled into his stomach. Dim light played across the kitchen floor and John's gaze wandered into the sitting room where the curtains hadn't been properly drawn. Harry was sprawled out on the small couch, legs hanging off the side and a blanket half falling off her singlet clad torso. The fire was still glowing and John put his glass down on the bench before walking to the hearth and putting another couple of pieces of split wood over the coals. Then he glanced at Harry again. A small, fond smile crawled over his face. He crossed the room and rearranged her blanket so it covered her a bit better. She moaned a little in her sleep, face creasing in the dim light and began to roll over. John backed away, not wanting to wake her. Just as he was about to go back to his room, he heard a muffled groan emanating from Sherlock's room. Frowning, John crept up to Sherlock's closed door and listened. The sound came again, a sound of distress and John made a choice. It wasn't a choice he was 100% comfortable with but it was a choice he wanted desperately to make. He eased the door open and sneaked into Sherlock's irritatingly tidy room. It was a pity he was incapable of keeping the rest of the flat like that, John thought.

 

"Don't," Sherlock mumbled in his sleep, tossing in his tangle of sheets, thin arms striking out at nothing. John took a moment to appreciate a sleeping Sherlock, dark hair curled over the white pillow and slender limbs twisted among the sheets. "Don't...hurt...him."

 

Distress was written all over the other man's face and John knelt on the edge of the bed, wondering if he really ought to listen to his inner desires. He wasn't sure what Sherlock would think but he just couldn't help himself. He didn't want to leave Sherlock to fight off his dreams on his own. John sucked in some air and then hoisted his whole body onto Sherlock's bed before sliding into the crisp sheets. Sherlock rolled over and grabbed at the pillow John was about to put his head on. John covered Sherlock's hand with his own and held it. Suddenly, Sherlock relaxed and muttered something about swearing to keep someone safe. Then he became tense again, twisting and turning away from John so that John had a prime view of his back which was thinly muscled and very pale. Sherlock's body thrashed and John instinctively wound his arms around Sherlock, pulling him close so that he just held him, making sure he didn't throw himself around too much, didn't hurt himself somehow. And Sherlock fully relaxed this time, breaths evening out so he sounded deeply asleep. John, satisfied, closed his eyes and rested his head on Sherlock's back. He was passed out in seconds.

 

"John?"

 

John blearily opened his eyes, momentarily confused as to where he was. Sunshine was pouring over him and the sheets were different. He rolled onto one side and there was Sherlock, propped up on an elbow and looking at John as if he were some kind of strange creature lying in bed with him. And then John remembered. Creeping into bed. Winding his arms around the other man...Sherlock looked good in bed, John thought before he could stop himself.

 

"Hi Sherlock," John smiled, trying to play down the fact they'd just slept together with not all of the participants knowing about it.

 

"What are you doing in my bed?" Sherlock asked, self-consciously pulling the sheet further up his chest.

 

"You, uh, you weren't sleeping well," John tried to explain his train of thought from last night. "And I wasn't sleeping either. And I just...you know what? I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. I didn't think."

 

"No, you thought," Sherlock was frowning at him but not in a displeased way.

 

"Pardon?" John said. He hauled himself into a sitting position and brought his knees up to his chest, still looking at Sherlock, wondering if he should dare to hope.

 

"You held me," Sherlock spoke in a halting, sort of dreamy tone. "Last night. And then I slept better than I've ever slept in my life."

 

John didn't quite know what to say. Was Sherlock mad? Was he happy? John wasn't very good at figuring out what emotion, if any, Sherlock was feeling and the little frown wasn't helping matters. For one thing, it distracted John immensely because it made the space between Sherlock's eyebrows scrunch together in little ripples and eyes to become slightly shadowed. It also was Sherlock's occasional poker face, hiding what he really thought of something. Or, it was his confused face which John rather thought it might have been.

 

"I liked it," Sherlock said in a voice like a small child.

 

John wasn't sure he'd heard quite right. "You what?"

 

"I liked it," Sherlock repeated, flopping down from his propped up position on his elbow so he lay flat on his back among the sheets and blankets.

 

"You liked it," John nodded slowly, letting that idea sink in. "Okay."

 

He was just considering kissing Sherlock when he heard a cry issuing from his room upstairs. Rosie. With a little sigh, he threw the sheets off him properly and swung his legs out of bed. As he was about to rise, he felt Sherlock's bony hand trace the curvature of his back, fingertips sliding over his spine.

 

"I've always appreciated your lines, John," he said quietly before removing his hand. John sat very still, the ghost of Sherlock's hand still touching his bare skin, goosebumps erupting, and not because he was cold.

 

"My what?" he said, voice a little hoarse. Sherlock chuckled a little.

 

"Your lines. The way your body fits together."

 

John thought that was possibly the most unromantic way of saying someone was good looking but coming from Sherlock, it was huge. A broad smile covered his face all at once and he threw himself back down onto his back so he could look up at Sherlock.

 

"Well thanks," he grinned. "But I think the appreciation is mutual."

 

With that, he flung himself up again and left the room, padding up the stairs to fetch Rosie. She was sitting up in her cot, little fists clutching the bars. Instead of crying, she was babbling incoherently, seeming to enjoy making sounds with her mouth. John waved at her and then covered his eyes with his hands.

 

"Where's Rosie?" he asked, eyes still covered. Then he whipped his hands away and stared at Rosie with a wide grin. "There she is!"

 

Rosie burst into giggling laughter and shook her hands, eager for more. So John, fully engaged now, covered his eyes and slowly moved closer to the cot. "Where's Rosie?"

 

Rosie made a babbling sound that almost sounded like...John pulled his hands away from his eyes and stared at his daughter in disbelief.

 

"Say that again," he whispered, eyes wide. Rosie babbled some more and then it happened again. It sounded awfully like 'dadda'. John moved to the cot and hoisted her out while she continued to babble, clearly pleased with herself. She'd been trading the gurgling for babbling for a while now, John realized, though he hadn't noticed at the time. First crawling and now...

 

"Dadda!" she cooed happily, tugging on John's hair with her fist. A bubble like helium spread through John's chest and he began to laugh, telling Rosie she was a very good girl. How proud of her he was. Hastily, he clattered down the stairs and bust into the sitting room where Sherlock was pacing in front of the fire, his dressing gown trailing behind him.

 

"Sherlock, listen to this," John said urgently and kissed Rosie's cheek, hoping she'd do it again. "C'mon Rosie. Do it for daddy."

 

Rosie blew a few bubbles and then started babbling again, grinning all the while. Then she pulled John's hair. "Dadda!"

 

Sherlock stopped pacing and stared, wide eyed. "Did she just...?"

 

"She did," John could hardly speak, he was grinning so much. At that moment, Harry rolled off the couch with a crash and hastily leaped to her feet, staring around her in alarm. When she saw John, Sherlock and Rosie, her face relaxed and she looked a little sheepish. She sat back on the couch with a yawn and pulled her blanket over her legs.

 

"What'd I miss?" Harry blinked several times.

 

"Oh my god," John still couldn't quite believe it. "Oh. My. God."

 

Without warning, Sherlock dashed over and embraced John and Rosie tightly, kissing John on the cheek as he did so.

 

"Cute!" yelled Harry from behind them before dissolving into giggles. Sherlock drew away, face flushing with embarrassment and John shot Harry a withering look only used between siblings.

 

"You're so immature," he said before turning on his heel and striding into the kitchen to make some breakfast. Rosie, as it turned out, loved chewing on toast with butter and jam and ended up with jam almost from ear to ear and giggling, as if she knew that John would have to give her a bath and that it would result in everyone anywhere near the bathroom getting wet and bubbly. Once John had cleaned up her highchair, he took her to the bathroom to run a shallow bath. Meanwhile, Sherlock and Harry ate together, returning to their serious conversation from yesterday. John really didn't know what they were talking about but assumed it was something to do with kicking bad habits and addictions. He dipped his finger into the water in the bathtub and nodded. Just warm enough. Rosie was sitting on the floor and he managed to wrestle her out of her pajamas before hoisting her into the bath. The moment her feet touched the water, she let out a squeal of delight and kicked a splash of water into John's eyes.

 

"Ugh, Rosie!" he blinked rapidly and Rosie giggled with delight. Shaking his head in despair, John lowered Rosie the rest of the way into the water and began washing up. She grabbed her squeezable orange rubber fish from the lip of the bath and clenched it tightly so it hissed out any air it had stored away.

 

"Dadda," Rosie said, tossing the fish into the water.

 

"Rosie," John smiled, making sure she was sitting properly in the bath before grabbing the baby shampoo and squirting a small dollop into the palm of his hand. He massaged it into her hair and then began rinsing. They spent a while in the bathroom, Rosie splashing happily and saying 'dadda' every now and again, obviously positively delighted she could say something like the grownups. Once she was sick of being wet, John swaddled her up in a thick fluffy towel and bundled her off to the change table in his room where he dressed her in some warm pants, a thermal top and a cute jersey Molly Hooper had bought. After brushing Rosie's hair, John settled her on his hip and headed back to the sitting room. Harry was just accepting a towel from Sherlock. Clearly, he had made it known she needed a shower. As she left the room, John put Rosie on the floor so she could have some crawling/rolling time.

 

"So," John said as the door to the bathroom slammed shut and the plumbing began to rattle and gurgle.

 

"So?" Sherlock asked, straightening his dressing gown with a tug. "So what?"

 

John shrugged. "I dunno. Thought you might have something interesting to tell me."

 

Sherlock turned in a full circle, staring around the flat as if searching for inspiration. His gaze flicked over Rosie and his face scrunched into a fond grin. Then he continued rotating until he was facing John.

 

"The couch is two and a half inches further to the left than it was yesterday," he announced, somewhat grandly but also dissatisfied.

 

"And that qualifies as interesting?" John raised his eyebrows. Sherlock shrugged, as if to say 'well, you asked.' Then, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown, he began pacing in front of the window overlooking Baker Street.

 

"Boring!" he exclaimed, turning sharply on his heel to continue his pacing. "What's got into the criminal classes these days?"

 

"Christmas is coming," John folded his arms and moved in front of the fire, enjoying the heat emanating from the flames to sink through his clothes.

 

"So?"

 

"So, they're taking a break. You should take a break."

 

"I can't take breaks!" Sherlock strode away from the window, throwing his hands in the air. "My brain will rot!"

 

He bunched his fingers into his dressing gown and then pulled it away from his body, as if it were clinging to him, constricting him. John could see the sheer frustration boiling inside of him, the boredom and the irritation of being domestic.

 

"Well, have you found out anything more about that Moriarty imposter guy?" John asked.

 

"No," Sherlock said in a short, sulky tone. Moodily, he stomped to the wall where the yellow spray painted smiley face was with its bullet holes puckering the paint and wallpaper and ran his index finger over it, a grim look on his face.

 

"Oh," said John and thought he'd best leave it at that. Christmas was coming after all.


	13. Christmas

It was Christmas Eve and the snow had piled up around the window that overlooked the street at 221B. John had strung up fairy lights so they glowed their rainbow drops, framing the snow and looking terribly festive. Mrs Hudson had allowed them to use her little Christmas tree because she said that Rosie ought to have one. This had resulted in John attempting to decorate it while Rosie got tangled up in tinsel and fairy lights and Sherlock pretended to help but was actually just playing with the baubles, rolling them across the floor and then chasing them, pinning them down moments before they were lost under the couch. Presents had slowly been piling up under the base of the tree; Molly Hooper had dropped by with a paper bag which she emptied under the tree and hugged John and Sherlock before kissing Rosie on the head.

 

"She's grown up so much, hasn't she?" she shook her head in wonder.

 

"Yeah," John put his hands on his hips. "She's saying 'dadda', 'food' and 'an 'Arry' now, among other, slightly less coherent things."

 

'An 'Arry' was Aunt Harry who now slept in John's old room. It hadn't been many days after the night in which John sneaked into Sherlock's bed that they'd decided they may as well bite the bullet and share a room. Besides, Sherlock reasoned, Harry couldn't sleep on the couch forever. So, much to Harry's delight (she loved the fact that John and Sherlock were an item and still yelled 'cute' at every available opportunity, sometimes joined by Mrs Hudson, much to Sherlock's irritation), John moved into Sherlock's room. They managed to bundle Rosie's cot in there too and now, sometimes, Sherlock would wake to her crying in the night and get her back to sleep. John wasn't sure he wanted to know what stories Sherlock told Rosie but they seemed to work. He was slightly concerned her next words might be 'murder' or 'crime.' But he loved sleeping with Sherlock, although Sherlock was still getting used to it. He loved falling asleep beside the tall, thin man he loved with his all his heart and he adored waking up next to him, seeing him at ease and very vulnerable. The way his face completely relaxed, mouth slightly ajar and curls framing his narrow cheeks.

 

"So pretty, too," Molly was crouching down beside Rosie who was fixated upon a little wooden toy that Greg had dropped off a couple of days ago, along with some gifts for under the tree. John suspected that Rosie was going to be very spoiled this Christmas.

 

"She is. Looks like her mother," John replied. After that, Molly left and Sherlock came into the sitting room, wrapped in his dressing gown after taking a shower. He curled up in his chair and watched Rosie play, a small smile of delight and wonder on his face. John adored the fact that Sherlock was so fond of Rosie; it was so pure and sweet and removed from Sherlock's usual activities. He'd always liked Rosie, but lately Sherlock had become very attached to her. Quite suddenly, and much to John's surprise, Sherlock leaped up from his chair and ran to their room in a pattering of bare feet and creaking of floor boards. Moments later, he was somewhat dressed and hauling his coat over his shoulders, struggling to free his arm from its twisted mess in the sleeve.

 

"Where're you going?" John asked, spreading his hands out in front of him to illustrate his confusion and overall bafflement.

 

"Last minute shopping," Sherlock said and dashed out the door, knotting his scarf around his neck, getting all tangled up in it.

 

"Shopping?" John called after him, frowning heavily but Sherlock was gone. This was even more out of character. Hell, the last time Sherlock had willingly gone shopping was when he'd bought the wedding ring for Janine which had never needed using anyway. John had managed to drag him into the shopping central of London once to buy some socks but he'd complained the whole time hence why John had made the decision to shop alone. So, when Sherlock dashed out to do some shopping without prior planning and much complaining, John was very suspicious indeed.

 

Sherlock arrived home later that day with two wrapped packages tucked into his coat. He placed them carefully under the Christmas tree, positioning them at the peak of the mountain of gifts, arranging them so their name tags faced outwards. John didn't say a word, knowing Sherlock would get huffy otherwise. Instead, he grinned giddily (Christmas really was coming!) and continued folding his shirts. Mrs Hudson had insisted on cooking dinner so she was banging around in the kitchen with Harry, who, as it transpired, was very interested in cooking. Mrs Hudson had taken to Harry almost at once and John was glad. Hopefully Harry saw the family atmosphere and preferred that to the bottle. She was doing really well, not complaining to John once, nor trying to sneak out. Something about talking to Sherlock had changed something in her. John was more than glad. Harry more than deserved to have a better life and John knew she'd hated what she had done to herself. He knew that every time she caved to the lure of booze, she hated herself that little bit more.

 

After dinner where Mrs Hudson had joined them before wishing them a merry Christmas and heading back to her flat and Harry had eaten and then left for her room, the boys relaxed. The evening had John had oddly excited, like a small child. The Christmas feeling was infecting him and he could recall one Christmas as a child when he'd gone to bed really early, hoping he'd be able to sleep away the night so he could get to presents faster. That had backfired horrifically, and he'd not been able to sleep for hours. Now, he knew he'd sleep well. He tucked Rosie into her bed and headed back to the sitting room where Sherlock was standing in front of the fire playing "We Wish You A Merry Christmas" on his violin. John leaned on the door frame and watched as Sherlock swayed a little in time to his playing, dressing gown dancing around his thighs. When he finished with a flourish, John clapped heartily. Sherlock had taken to playing the violin for other's pleasure more often and John was constantly surprised and in awe of his skill.

 

"Very nice," John praised and Sherlock flicked his bow with a swoosh, bowing. He put his violin away in its case and then eyed John. He patted his shirt down and then, with a little and slightly flamboyant twirl, he began waltzing his way over, shuffling his feet over the floor and swishing his hips. John began laughing and couldn't quite stop and at that second, Harry poked her head around the door.

 

"Hey, has anyone seen the---CUTE!"

 

John rolled his eyes and reached out his hand to take Sherlock's. "The what?"

 

But Harry was gone, clattering back to John's old room. So, John wound his arm around Sherlock's waist and they clumsily waltzed to the bedroom with John messing up the steps (still unable to waltz, much to Sherlock's amusement), Sherlock kicking the door shut behind him. Thankfully, Rosie didn't wake up and John made sure to pull her blankets over her properly before removing his shirt and trousers and sliding on his sleeping shorts. The elastic in the waist had gone long ago so they slumped a little, riding low. He hitched them up and then hurled himself into the bed, snuggling under the mound of sheets and blankets. Sherlock slipped out of his dressing gown and struggled out of his inside out t-shirt. Then, after ruffling his hair, he climbed in beside John and clasped his hands behind his head, laying flat on his back.

 

"Good night, John," he said softly, tenderly.

 

"Good night, Sherlock," John said, rather muffled. He poked his head out from under the sheets. "I love you."

 

"You too," Sherlock smiled, already drifting off to sleep.

 

The night closed around them, passing swiftly in their dreams. Neither John nor Sherlock woke until Rosie began babbling and laughing, throwing her teddies over the side of her cot so they hit the floor with soft thuds the next morning. Sleepily, John peeled his eyes open and realized with a rush of happiness that Sherlock had his thin arm draped over John's torso and was still snoring gently. John turned his head so he could look at Rosie. She peeked through the bars of her cot and pointed at John, giggling.

 

"Dadda!" she said proudly. John eased Sherlock's arm off his stomach and rolled out of bed to fetch Rosie. He lifted her out of her cot and then crawled back into bed, laying her between himself and Sherlock. Immediately, Rosie began playing with Sherlock's hair, tugging on the dark curls. Sherlock groaned and rolled over, waking. When he realized what Rosie was doing, he reached out his hands to tickle her. She dissolved into a fit of giggles as his bony fingers hit all of her most ticklish spots.

 

"Morning," Sherlock said, glancing over at John who was watching their antics with a loving smile on his face.

 

"Morning indeed."

 

"Dadda!" Rosie cooed, jabbing Sherlock in the bare chest with his fist. "Dadda!"

 

Sherlock stopped tickling her and stared, appearing slightly shocked. His mouth twitched, as if he were trying to conceal a smile. And then it lit up his face, his broad smile creasing his cheeks and crinkling his nose. It clearly meant a lot to him, to be referred to as 'dadda'. His whole face went bright red and his eyes glazed over for a moment.

 

"She's not wrong," John remarked and swung himself out of bed to pull on a dressing gown. Then he nodded at Sherlock. "Bring her out when you're ready?"

 

Sherlock grunted his affirmation and began to tickle Rosie again. Still grinning, John left the bedroom and headed into the sitting room which was lit up by the fairy lights and the glowing embers of the fire as well as a weak sunshine pushing through the curtains. John made some tea and stoked up the fire before whipping open the curtains to reveal a mostly clear sky and a snow-covered London. Moments later, Sherlock dashed out of the room with Rosie tucked under his arm, giggling as if nothing could stop her.

 

"Coming in for landing!" Sherlock cried out, circling the sitting room before swooping into his chair. He made a hissing noise in his throat, rather like a sci-fi door swishing open and gathered Rosie into his lap.

 

"Slick," John said and moved into his chair so he could sit opposite Sherlock and Rosie. They waited for Harry who didn't emerge from her room until around twenty minutes later, still rubbing sleep from her eyes and adjusting her socks she loved to sleep in. They had pink sheep on them and were very fluffy. John couldn't understand how her feet didn't suffocate! She stumbled into the sitting room and blinked heavily, taking the image of Sherlock cuddling Rosie while John had his legs stuck out in front of him, soaking up the warmth from the fire. John looked up, about to wish her a merry Christmas and a good morning when he saw the look on her face.

 

"If you say 'cute' one more time, I swear to god, I-"

 

"Merry Christmas, John," Harry replied, making her way to the couch. John opened his mouth and then closed it while Sherlock couldn't quite contain a grin. Shaking his head in exasperation, John announced they should probably have breakfast before they opened Christmas presents. The grin slid off Sherlock's face like hot butter in a pan and for one wild second, John thought he might throw a tantrum.

 

Or...not?" John shrugged, hoping to placate Sherlock. "We could just...do it now?"

 

Bundling Rosie against his chest, Sherlock leaped up from his chair, excited once more. Jesus, he really could be a child sometimes. John rolled his eyes and got out of his chair to join Sherlock and Rosie at the tree. Harry sat down with them, a circle of four around the tree by the window looking out over Baker Street. Before long, the room was filled with sounds of delight and appreciation as presents were opened. John had received a new woolen jersey from Molly, a slightly tasteless tie from Greg (he was terrible at choosing gifts for other adults), a very sweet photo album of him and Sherlock from Mrs Hudson, a gift card for a blokes shop from Mike Stamford, a pair of socks and a striped scarf from Harry and finally, wrapped in plain black wrapping paper from Sherlock, a small velvet box containing black ring, the band smooth and matte. John took it out, turning it over and almost unable to prevent a small tear in his eye. He looked up at Sherlock who was watching him closely.

 

"That's what people do, isn't it?" Sherlock said hesitantly. John couldn't speak so he just slipped the ring onto his middle finger and leaned over to kiss Sherlock on the cheek. That was when he noticed Sherlock wearing matching one on his middle finger.

 

"Thank you," he whispered as Harry chuckled beside him. Relief washed over Sherlock's face and he sat back, turning his own ring around on his finger. Meanwhile, Rosie was tearing open another present. She already had a set of stacking cups from Molly, four new stuffed toys from Greg (he was much better at gifts for children), a tactile book about animals from Mrs Hudson, a large squeaky dog from Harry and a tow around wooden train from John. Her little fingers were now tearing at the black wrapping with the pretty pink bow. Finally, there was a hole big enough for her to pull the present out of. John watched as she leaned against Sherlock's waist for support and balance. There was a hint of red and then a stuffed red dragon popped out. John recognized it at once. It was a stuffed and fluffy version of Smaug, wings, spikes and all.

 

"You couldn't resist, could you?" John shook his head at Sherlock who was grinning proudly. Rosie took to it at once, Sherlock telling her it was Smaug, the greatest character to ever come out of literature. She tucked it under her arm and cuddled it happily. After Harry had opened her final gift (an apron reading "Kiss the Cook" from Mrs Hudson), John climbed to his feet. Sherlock hadn't got anything from him yet and was clearly trying to hide his disappointment, biting his bottom lip and not quite making eye contact.

 

"Wait here," John told them and Sherlock's eyes lit up like a child's. John left the room and clattered down the stairs to Mrs Hudson's flat, knocking on her door. Almost instantly, she flung the door open and smiled warmly at John, knowing at once what he was there for.

 

"Merry Christmas, John," she said.

 

"Merry Christmas, Mrs Hudson," John replied. Then he grinned. "Where is he?"

 

Mrs Hudson looked over her shoulder and then made a little cooing sound. There was a skittering of claws and a little thump. Next minute, a small red puppy hurtled into view, pink tongue hanging out and a blue bow around its neck. There was a tag attached to the bow reading 'Dear Sherlock, much love, From John.'

 

"Thank you," John said. Mrs Hudson had been looking after the puppy for several days leading up to Christmas so that Sherlock would have no idea. He bent down and picked the puppy up, sighing a little in good humour as it licked his face.

 

"I hope he likes it," Mrs Hudson said before waving John away. "Go on then!"

 

John made sure he was holding the puppy gently before he headed back up the stairs. The puppy was a red setter, it's ginger fur already beginning to lengthen. John's heart beat a little faster as he walked back into the flat, the puppy obscured by his arms. He hoped, beyond all hopes, that Sherlock would be pleased. He knew just how much a dog like this had haunted Sherlock and hoped that it would be suitable, not distasteful.

 

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock," he said, walking slowly over to the tree where Sherlock, Rosie and Harry were still gathered. "Hold out your hands."

 

Sherlock, confused, reached out and John lowered the puppy into his arms. For a second, Sherlock was completely silent, his face blank and eyes dark. John suddenly wondered if he'd got it all wrong. He just stood there, feeling a bit stupid as Sherlock stared at the puppy. It wriggled a little and tried to lick his bony wrist.

 

"Redbeard," Sherlock whispered and then a massive smile broke over his face. He cuddled the puppy a little closer and then read the tag. "Thank you, John. Thank you."

 

"Phew!" John exhaled loudly and sat back down, mock wiping sweat from his brow, much to Harry's amusement. Harry then announced she was making breakfast and slung on her new apron before heading into the kitchen. Sherlock put the puppy down and watched it caper around, grabbing shreds of wrapping paper and chewing on them before dropping them again.

 

"He's perfect," Sherlock was still watching the pup but directed his words to John. "Would it be wrong to call him Redbeard?"

 

"After everything you went through? Not at all."

 

"Well then," Sherlock patted his knees to entice the puppy. "Come here, Redbeard."

 

The puppy, now named for years of love and also pain, stopped dashing about and bumbled over to Sherlock, tongue hanging out. It leaped onto Sherlock's lap and sat there, panting a little. John propped his elbows on his knees and then watched as Rosie rolled over top of a wad of wrapping paper, still clutching Smaug. Dear god, that was going to be her favourite toy now, wasn't it?


	14. Human

John managed to convince everyone that it would be socially acceptable to wear actual clothes as opposed to pyjamas, though Sherlock protested, telling John that pyjamas were perfectly acceptable because he was Sherlock Holmes and he wore whatever he wanted. However, John put his foot down and won the argument, mostly because Rosie had tugged Sherlock's coat off its hook and rolled herself into it, effectively cutting off anything Sherlock was about to say because he was distracted by her cuteness. Harry and Mrs Hudson took over the kitchen entirely, not allowing John or Sherlock entry while they created a Christmas feast that would have made the royal family proud. Only an hour or so before the feast was to be laid on the table, guests began arriving. Greg came first, several wine bottles tucked under his arm and a bottle of whiskey in a paper bag. He happily installed himself by the fire, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets while John took the wine and whisky, placing them on the mantelpiece. Then he told Greg about how Harry was straightening out (he had to laugh internally at how he'd phrased that one) and Greg looked very pleased.

 

"How's the wife, Greg dear?" Mrs Hudson was taking a quick break from the kitchen for a nip of wine and a breath of air that wasn't steamy and smelling of food.

 

"Oh, it's..." Greg paused, jaw working, the easy smile he generally wore sliding off his face. "We've split up permanently."

 

"I'm sorry to hear that," Mrs Hudson reached out and embraced Greg around the middle (she was rather short compared to him) and he managed to hug her back while making sure his wine didn't spill.

 

"Ah, it's okay. It was never very stable anyway," Greg sounded fairly blasé but John, who noticed emotion rather like Sherlock noticed tiny details which lead to a murder conviction, knew it pained Greg more than he liked to let on. Mrs Hudson made a sympathetic sound before bustling back into the kitchen. Meanwhile, Sherlock, Rosie and Redbeard were capering about, Rosie lugging toy Smaug and chasing Redbeard who was chasing Sherlock who was wearing his coat like dragon wings and soaring around the sitting room.

 

"Are you okay?" John asked Greg, turning his attention away from the childish antics.

 

"Yeah," Greg said at once. Then he thought about it. "Well, you know, I'm a bit gutted but that's how life goes." He paused again. "Okay, I'm very gutted."

 

"I get it," John said, patting Greg's shoulder comfortingly.

 

"It's nice to be here though," Greg smiled over at Sherlock, Rosie and Redbeard.

 

At that moment, there was a knock on the door and Molly burst in in an explosion of tinsel and smiles. She was bearing a rather large bag full of nibbles such as chocolates, crisps, sweets of various sorts and that was only what John could see at the top; the bag was bulging and appeared dangerously close to splitting and spilling the contents.

 

"Hello!" she said, getting a better grip on her bag.

 

"Hello," John said, rushing forwards to take the bag before she dropped it. He placed it by the doors to the kitchen and then gave Molly a quick hug. "Merry Christmas."

 

"Merry Christmas," Molly smiled. "Thanks for having me."

 

She moved to stand by Greg and they struck up a conversation, probably about work. Over by the Christmas tree, Sherlock and Rosie had finished dashing about and Redbeard had curled up by the fire, quite worn out. Sherlock settled Rosie onto his hip and walked over to the fire where John, Molly and Greg stood.

 

"Hello Molly," he said.

 

"Merry Christmas Sherlock," Molly said quietly. John watched them closely, gauging how Molly acted. She still loved Sherlock but she didn't show it, didn't try and present it to anyone. And John appreciated that so much. He knew how much it pained her and he was so grateful that she understood. Suddenly, the kitchen doors slid open and Mrs Hudson and Harry swarmed out, carrying dishes laden with food, plates balanced in ways that John didn't think was actually possible and bowls defying gravity as they wobbled over to the table.

 

"Come on then!" Mrs Hudson said. So they hurried to the table and John rushed back to the kitchen to help bring things out. Before long, the table was sagging under the weight of all the food and Greg was pouring some glasses of wine. Harry declined, much to John's delight. Finally, after some hasty reshuffling, everyone was seated, Rosie at John's side in her highchair.

 

"Thank you to Mrs Hudson and Harry for preparing this rather magnificent feast," John said, before they began eating. It was his version of a prayer and the only one that seemed appropriate at the present time.

 

"Yeah, it looks wonderful," Greg chipped in, taking a sip of his wine. And with that, eating commenced. Rosie enjoyed herself immensely; chomping on chunks of potato, slivers of pork, slices of carrot and other tasty morsels. Once the main course had been attacked thoroughly, Mrs Hudson and Harry removed all the dishes and then came back with pudding which consisted of a large and well iced fruit cake, fruit tarts, hot custard, jelly, a large steamed pudding and ice-cream. John, feeling very full already, loosened the waistband of his trousers and helped himself to some pudding, making sure to get some for Rosie. He glanced over at Sherlock, intent on making some kind of joke or something when he realized that Sherlock was very pale, paler than normal. John was about to ask if he was okay when Sherlock tapped his glass with his spoon, a gentle 'tink' gaining silence from the table.

 

"I'd like to say something, if you don't mind," he swallowed hard. The silence quickly surrounded him and he looked like he might be sick. "There's not a lot of point in not saying anything anymore. So, I just wanted to say that...John and myself are together so if we behave a little differently on cases or-"

 

"Really?" Greg exclaimed, putting down his wine abruptly. "You're joking."

 

"Nope," John, leaning over to Sherlock so he could peck him on the cheek. "I swear we're not."

 

And Greg Lestrade, who'd never been very good at noticing changing dynamics, or indeed, any mildly romantic dynamics between people, found his mouth falling open in sheer surprise. Chuckling, John patted Sherlock's hand, a silent thank you for saying what needed to be said, a grateful gesture to show that he understood how much bravery Sherlock had required to speak words he'd never needed to speak before, especially not about John. Greg was still floored, still glancing rapidly between John and Sherlock as if trying to figure out how it had all occurred.

 

"Don't worry," Sherlock told him, clearly noting his bafflement and surprise. "I'm still trying to figure it out myself."

 

"But you and John," Greg finally pulled himself together enough to say something other than voicing his shock. "You guys aren't...you know..."

 

"Having sex?" Mrs Hudson butted in, taking a hearty gulp of wine. "Can you imagine our boys doing that?"

 

Greg spluttered something about not quite catching his drift and went very red whilst Sherlock nearly choked on air.

 

"Mrs Hudson!" he glared at her pointedly but by now, everyone was laughing so hard, it didn't really matter. The only person not joining in the hilarity was Molly who had taken a hasty mouthful of wine. Tears were welling in her eyes and John revised his thoughts from days ago. She hadn't set Sherlock free, not really. She might not have been trying to flirt with him but she still had him locked away in her heart. Of course, you could never really let someone go who you'd willingly loved for so long. John had been stupid to think she was over it. You couldn't get over love; it was one of those conundrums of the heart.

 

"Molly," John said quietly, just loud enough that she heard over everyone's laughing.

 

"It's okay, John," Molly blinked hard and swiped at her eyes. "I understand."

 

"Molly," John said again but wasn't sure what to follow on with.

 

"I'm happy for you," Molly nodded rapidly and took another gulp of wine. John thought it wise not to say anymore to her and instead turned his attention to Rosie who was dipping her fingers in her bowl of custard and then sucking on them, mouth turning upwards with glee each time. She had pudding all over her face and bib and John could do nothing but sigh in good humour. Meanwhile, Greg was now peppering Sherlock with questions, asking how on earth him and John had ended up hooking up. Sherlock was avoiding most of them and John could see he was dangerously close to retreating to his facade of pretending not to care. Hastily, John gave Greg a swift rundown of a simplified version of the events that had occurred after he'd been discharged from the hospital. When he was done, Greg simply stared at him, wonder on his face. Finally, he opened his mouth to speak, a slow and smug grin sliding onto his face.

 

"And you always said you weren't gay."

 

"It's not quite like that," John protested but it was too late. Mrs Hudson had joined in with a giggle and then they were off, talking about all the times John had insisted he was as straight as an arrow. John, exasperated, chose not to argue and instead eyed Sherlock who had relaxed again after the attention had been taken off him. By now, Harry had joined in with Mrs Hudson and Greg, sharing childhood stories that John would have preferred to not be common knowledge and Molly had composed herself enough to laugh along with everyone else. The atmosphere became light hearted and joyful again and John was just beginning to get a little sleepy (he was very full) when there was a sharp knock on the flat door. It was almost as if someone had magically gagged everyone at the table; the entire room fell silent and even Rosie stopped babbling to stare at the door. Another knock came and Sherlock stood, buttoning his suit jacket as he did so. He walked to the door and eased it open, tension causing his whole body to be stiff as a board.

 

"Mycroft," Sherlock said in surprise, stepping away from the door a little so that all those sitting at the table could see the impeccably dressed elder Holmes brother. "What're you doing here?"

 

"It's Christmas," Mycroft said after a very pregnant pause in which he looked awkward, almost as if he regretted crashing the party.

 

"Since when do you voluntarily do Christmas's?" Sherlock demanded, not letting Mycroft walk in.

 

"Since when do you?" Mycroft replied coolly.

 

Sherlock tilted his head to one side. "You got lonely. Didn't you?"

 

"Sherlock," Mycroft said in warning but, of course, there was no stopping Sherlock once he got caught on the scent.

 

"Mycroft Holmes got lonely," he said gleefully. "My goodness, times really are changing!"

 

"Do shut up," Mycroft snapped.

 

"Oh Sherlock," Mrs Hudson called from the table, a touch of motherly exasperation in her tone. "Let him in!"

 

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at John, as if asking for permission. John nodded a little and Sherlock stepped aside to allow Mycroft to walk in, still trying to maintain his importance and composure. He stood beside Sherlock for a moment, clearly unaccustomed to such gatherings.

 

"We're just finishing pudding," Mrs Hudson waved Mycroft towards the table. "Care for some cake?"

 

Mycroft's posture changed slightly and he smiled a little, a tiny upward turn of his lips but a smile none the less. "If you don't mind."

 

"Not at all," Mrs Hudson said at the same time that Sherlock indicated under his breath that they did mind very much. There was a hasty reshuffling at the table and then Mycroft was sitting beside Harry who eyed him curiously.

 

"Who're you?" she asked. Mycroft cocked his head to one side, as if wondering the same thing of her. Then he explained that he was the older and much cleverer Holmes brother and, in return, Harry told him that she was the younger and much cleverer Watson sibling, much to John's amusement. They hit it off right away, strangely enough and before long, the table was back to its previous light hearted antics. John leaned back in his chair and observed, rather satisfied and pleased with how Christmas had panned out. He had almost been expecting something to go terribly wrong and ruin Christmas. In fact, he couldn't recall a single one since he was a child that had gone smoothly. He glanced sideways at Sherlock who wasn't completely at ease, watching Mycroft. John leaned over to him and lowered his voice.

 

"Relax. Maybe he's finally coming to terms with the fact that he is actually a human being."

 

"Mycroft, come to terms with something he doesn't want to?" Sherlock replied, shooting John an incredulous look. "Not likely."

 

John looked back to Mycroft who was still talking with Harry, no doubt sharing stories regarding sibling rivalry. He'd rarely seen Mycroft so relaxed and with that tiny smile playing on his lips. Although it was very out of character for him, John was glad, glad that he'd seemed to have stopped being so afraid of casual human interaction that didn't involve him exhibiting his extensive brain power and higher intellect. Sherlock finally relaxed, leaning back on his chair so he was at the same level as John and then he reached out his hand. John, widening his eyes, took it and they just held each other like that, quietly and discreetly but, none the less, a Sherlock initiated gesture. Christmas really was here.

 

Several hours later, Mrs Hudson had tipsily made her way back to her flat, Greg had escorted Molly away and Harry was doing a touch of washing up in the kitchen. John had put a very sleepy Rosie to bed after washing her face and now stood in front of the fire, hands in his pockets and the ghost feeling of Sherlock's fingers around his still lingering a little. Mycroft was standing by the table, having lost his easy expression now that the guests had dispersed. Sherlock stood by John, eyeing his brother carefully.

 

"So," he said finally. "What was that all about?"

 

Mycroft didn't say anything, working his mouth uncomfortably. He looked like the words he wanted to say were poisonous, would pain him to speak. When he finally opened his mouth, he sounded oddly tight; trying to maintain his normal tone of voice but a little higher. "Is it wrong to spend Christmas with family?"

 

"It's certainly strange when neither Christmas nor family has ever meant a lot to you," Sherlock shot back quickly.

 

"Family means more to me than you think, Sherlock," Mycroft narrowed his eyes, clutching his umbrella instinctively.

 

"Right," said Sherlock sarcastically. "I know you. There's an ulterior motive."

 

"Sherlock," John said in a slightly warning tone but Sherlock ignored him.

 

"What is it, Mycroft?" he growled.

 

"Oh, brother mine," Mycroft sighed. "You never were very good at leaving things alone."

 

"I'm a consulting detective," Sherlock said, as if that explained everything.

 

"Yes, well, consulting detective or not, you have zero tact."

 

"And you're the master of that, are you?" John put in snidely, not quite able to help himself. Mycroft looked suitably chastened and clutched his umbrella a little tighter.

 

"Merry Christmas," he said shortly and turned to leave.

 

"Mycroft Holmes!" Sherlock said loudly. "Tell me what you really came for."

 

Mycroft spun around and the corners of his mouth were turned down. "I came for Christmas."

 

"And?"

 

"Ugh, you're impossible! I came for Christmas, Sherlock. Fine, you were right. I was lonely. Is that alright with you?"

 

There was an awkward silence in which Mycroft and Sherlock stared angrily at each other and John rocked backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet, wondering if he ought to say something.

 

"I don't believe you," Sherlock snarled quietly but Myrcoft had had enough and swept from the flat in a huff.

 

"Well done," John told Sherlock sarcastically.

 

"What?" Sherlock sounded offended, turning to John and crinkling his nose.

 

"Would it have been so terrible if he'd just come for Christmas dinner?"

 

"I know him, John. He wouldn't subject himself to this sort of thing unless he had something else on his mind."

 

"Oh come on," John rolled his eyes. "Maybe he really was lonely."

 

Sherlock didn't say anything more on the topic, instead poking his head into the kitchen to make sure Harry was going to go to bed and not being tempted by the left over wine on the bench. She was just hanging up her tea towel and pulling the plug in the sink. She waved to John and Sherlock before clattering upstairs to bed. John found himself inching closer to Sherlock, hoping they might be able to go to bed, not holding any resentment about the Mycroft issue. He took Sherlock's hand and twisted a little so he stood directly in front of the other man, staring upwards at his face.

 

"Bed?" he asked hopefully.

 

"Alright," Sherlock said amicably, clearly not holding anything against John for speaking up about Mycroft. Instead, he looked relieved to be going to bed. The pair slung their arms around each other and headed to their room in comfortable silence. As they climbed into bed, John wondered if Mycroft really was up to something. But maybe, just maybe he was lonely. Even the greatest minds needed people around them.


	15. The Stationmasters Revenge

Several days had passed since the Christmas dinner and it saw John, Sherlock and Rosie taking a walk down by the river, John pushing Rosie along in a stroller that he'd found in an op-shop. Harry was back at the flat doing something foody with Mrs Hudson and Sherlock had said that he'd wanted some fresh air. Not one to argue when Sherlock wanted some quality time outdoors that didn't involve chasing killers, John agreed. Now, they strolled down the riverbank, the wheels of Rosie's stroller sliding a little in the snow and John gripping the handle tightly, knuckles white. Sherlock was pointing out various locations across the river, mostly to Rosie but also for John's entertainment.

 

"And that's the pub in which daddy got rather inebriated," he chuckled, glancing up at John as he pointed. John knew he was referencing the stag night...jeeze, they hadn't just been 'rather inebriated'. They'd been pissed as chooks! "And then, across from there is where we found a pair of legs. Nothing else attached, mind you. Just the legs."

 

"Sherlock," John said. "Is that really appropriate?"

 

"Sure," said Sherlock without even considering it and continued his mapping out of the riverside. Rosie was listening intently, following Sherlock's finger with her eyes and smiling from underneath her bundle of scarves and blankets John had piled on her to keep her warm. They passed another couple with two kids capering alongside them who nodded politely, wishing them a merry Christmas and a happy new year. As they walked, snow began to fall again, swirling from the sky and making Rosie giggle as she got some on her nose. Sherlock was walking just ahead, turning around in circles as if marveling at the snowy wonderland. It was so perfect, John thought. The happy little family picture of daddy and daddy and Rosie taking a walk along a snow coated river bank just after Christmas. Of course, nothing that perfect could last.

 

And that's when it happened. When John tried to recall the events later, they only appeared in his mind as a blur of horror and fear. It began with a screaming of tires, making John whip his head around, searching for the source. A second later, the truck and trailer haulage unit hurtled around the corner, skidding on the snow and fishtailing, the trailer swinging wide across the busy street. Cars swerved out of the way, creating a wave of slushy snow rolling over the road and John shouted at Sherlock who, in the heat of the moment, had turned to check if Rosie and John were okay. The moment seemed to freeze and John just saw Sherlock, coat flying out behind him, concern written all over his pale face and the way the wind whipped his hair. And then the car, the shiny red sports car spun, a full 360 degree twirl off the road, out of control after trying to avoid the truck, its back swinging out over the riverbank, engine shrieking. Sherlock, eyes still on John and Rosie, never saw it coming. The boot of the car neatly clipped him, buckling his legs and sending him flying through the air and into the river with a splash. The world around John stopped. Or, at least, it felt like it did. He stared into the river in horror, an odd sound emenating from his throat, a sound of terrible distress. Already, people were swarming around, shouting and screaming in the chaos of the accident. The truck had stopped, blocking the road, cars had piled up and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. John's heart plummeted and then it began to race, the implications of the event sinking in. He let go of the stroller, shouted at someone to hold it and he was running to the rivers edge, hauling off his coat and tossing it aside, not caring as the bitter wind bit into him.

 

"Sherlock!" he shouted, scanning the water. Without a second thought, he dived in, the biting chill of the water sinking into his bones instantly, numbing him. But he hardly felt it, too busy searching for Sherlock. He flailed about in the water, panic consuming him and blinding him. It wasn't until he was pretty much touching Sherlock that he realized they were next to each other. Sherlock looked eerie, passed out and coat billowing around him, dark curls suspended in the water. His pale skin was even paler in the icy water and he was sinking fast, arms spread and legs pointing to the bottom of the river, his back arched so his face pointed to the surface. John kicked, reaching out to grab him. His lungs were screaming but he refused to give in, grabbing Sherlock's arm and hauling him close before kicking upwards. But Sherlock was too heavy, weighted down by the coat, and they began to sink together. Gritting his teeth, John fumbled for the opening in the coat, intent on getting it off. But his lungs felt as if they were about to collapse in on themselves and John had to go up for air. He let go of Sherlock. Suddenly he was kicking to the surface and when his head broke the water and he felt fresh air on his face, he gasped in air, burning his lungs. He gulped deeply and then dived into the water again. He faced downwards and swam hard, searching. Where was Sherlock? He ought to have been there! He was just below John! John kicked harder, the pressure of the water bearing down on him. And there he was, still sinking, nearly at the bottom of the river now. John reached down and grabbed Sherlock's arm. He began struggling with the coat, trying to get it off. But the water had saturated it, stuck it to him. Cursing in his head, John frantically tore at it. His fingers were completely numb now and refused to work, instead slipping and clunking together. Lungs burning again, John moved to Sherlock's face and tapped it, the water slowing his movements. Sherlock didn't wake and John, fear fueling him, made another attempt at getting the heavy coat off. Finally, his arms were free from the sleeves and John managed to rip the coat away. Suddenly lighter, Sherlock rose a little and John wound his arms around Sherlock's slim waist, kicking up. His lungs were empty, no oxygen left and even as they rose, his vision blurred, darkness swirling in front of him. But he was nearly there. So close now. He gripped Sherlock tighter and kicked. His movements were slow, sluggish and he felt as though they were sinking rather than rising. He ground his teeth and with limbs on fire, he kept trying to swim. And suddenly his head broke the surface and he gasped for air, half passed out, head lolling to the side. He yanked Sherlock out of the water and began hauling them both to the side of the river. People swarmed the bank, reaching out to help John. A hand closed around his and pulled. Another grabbed Sherlock and then they were laying on the snow by the river, John heaving in deep breaths, shuddering and shaking. Sherlock. Where was he? John rolled over and coughed, suddenly vomiting up river water, burning his throat. He wiped his mouth and crawled over the snow, ignoring the people telling him to lie down and found Sherlock, crumpled in the snow with people trying to wake him up. John, body tingling, reached over and touched Sherlock's face. It was icy cold. Pulse. Where was his pulse? John tried to feel for it but it was no good. His fingers refused to work and his vision was spiraling again. He just wanted to lay down and...sleep...forever. He opened his mouth a little, wanting to say something about how to treat hypothermia but instead just mumbling, "Sherlock."

 

He was cold. Freezing. He felt it deep in his bones, a debilitating sensation that dragged him awake from a dream where he was drowning with Sherlock, a dream where he was trying so hard to do what he was supposed to do best. Save a life. His eyes snapped open. A hospital bed, tubes in his arms. He'd been here before. A groan ran through him, rather like the shivers of cold left over from the river. It wasn't a dream then. John could recall some of it now, diving into the bitterly cold water, grabbing Sherlock, wrestling him from the coat, swimming upwards and then...nothing. Where was Sherlock now? John tried to wriggle upwards into a sitting position but was pinned down by thick blankets, presumably there to keep him warm. He was alone, very alone. Though he was cold, he felt fine now. He fumbled with his blankets, managing to roll them off. He swung his legs out of bed and set his feet on the floor, not caring that he tugged a tube out of his flesh, making a machine beep in protest. He eased the last few out, dropping them on his bed before standing shakily. His legs wobbled and then held firm. John grabbed one of his blankets, wrapping it around his shoulders, before shuffling from his room, intent on finding Sherlock. The door creaked on its hinges and then he was standing in the empty corridor, wondering how on earth he was going to find Sherlock. A shiver ran through him and he tightened the blanket around his shoulders. His feet made soft patting sounds as he padded down the linoleum, peeking through the glass panels in the doors to each ward. Some were empty, some had patients but none had Sherlock. John rounded a corner, starting to feel oddly uneasy. He peeked through another glass panel and then he saw him. John didn't think, just shoved the door open and hurried over to the bed in which Sherlock lay, still as a stone. Instinctively, John checked the monitors and was relieved. But Sherlock looked so fragile, so small all bundled up in the white sheets. John found himself sitting on the edge of the bed and tracing Sherlock's jaw with his index finger, willing the other man to wake up.

 

"Hey, Sherlock, that's enough sleeping now," John whispered, leaning down to kiss the pale cheek. "Come on. Please wake up. I'm...lonely."

 

But Sherlock didn't waken. His eyes stayed closed, lips slightly parted and chest gently rising and falling. And though John knew he'd pull through, he still felt as though he was stranded out on a tiny rock in the middle of the ocean, waves crashing around him, terribly lonely. He needed Sherlock more than ever. He'd always needed him but now...now he needed him as if Sherlock was his life support.

 

"Sherlock," John said very quietly, taking his hand and running his index finger over Sherlock's thin bones hiding under his nearly translucent skin. "Sherlock, I need you."

 

It would be several days before Sherlock would wake up. In those several days, John was discharged from hospital and picked up Rosie from Mrs Hudson who was worried sick. He ended up sleeping in the chair by Sherlock's bed with Rosie bundled in his arms rather than going home because he didn't think he could handle sleeping alone. During the day, Rosie would play on the floor among blankets Mrs Hudson had brought around and John took to reading some of his first blog stories out loud to Sherlock.

 

"Do you recall "A Study In Pink?" John asked the unresponsive Sherlock. "I do. I thought you were the most arrogant prick I'd ever met. Still liked you though."

 

John scrolled through the story, reading slowly and carefully because he knew Sherlock preferred him to read concisely, rather than hastily stumbling over the words. Rosie was listening too and inserted the occasional 'dadda', much to John's sad pleasure. Sherlock stayed sleeping and, in fact, only woke up when John had his attention on someone else for the first time in days. He had been halfway through reading "The Geek Interpreter" when the door to the ward had crashed open, Greg Lestrade flying in, a flurry of coats and scarves.

 

"Good heavens!" John exclaimed, putting his phone down and trying to calm his thundering heart. "Hello Greg."

 

"Hello John," Greg skidded to a halt and gathered his breath while John eyed him carefully. Something had happened. He didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to see that. "What's up?"

 

"It's about the truck and the Moriarty imposter," Greg said, instantly piquing John's curiosity.

 

"Yes?" said John. Greg heaved a deep breath and then stuffed his hands deep into his pockets.

 

"You can put it on your blog that I solved it, this time," he said happily. "Because I solved it!"

 

"Okay..." John chuckled, still in the dark a bit.

 

"Well, as it turns out, someone hired that imposter guy to take Sherlock out," Greg began, falling into his story telling voice. "They paid the guy a lot of money, somewhere in the hundred thousands."

 

"Who?" asked John. "Who hired him?"

 

"Moriarty's brother," Greg grinned, pleased with himself. John found himself more confused than ever. And then-

 

"The station master," came Sherlock's sleepy tone from the bed. John jerked his head around in time to see Sherlock raising his head from the pillow, face creased and eyes slightly dulled from sleep and morphine.

 

"Sherlock!" he cried, delighted. He leaped off his chair and flung his arms around the other man's thin neck, a small tear escaping him.

 

"Easy now," Sherlock whispered hoarsely. "I've only just woken up. Do refrain from killing me."

 

John drew back, a broad grin lighting up his face. Sherlock was awake! He felt like skipping, though he knew he'd receive some very odd looks if he did. Greg looked delighted too but also very smug that he'd finally solved a case before Sherlock.

 

"You said he's a station master?" Greg asked, turning the conversation back to the case. Sherlock nodded slowly, laying his head back on the pillow to relax.

 

"Yes, Eurus told us," he explained briefly and John recalled it now. The face on the monitor. The train sounds...he'd tried hard to forget those.

 

"Yeah, well, he paid the imposter to kill you, Sherlock," Greg said. "But then, course, you killed the imposter which screwed up Moriarty's brother's plans."

 

"But hang on!" John butted in, confused as always. "Why would Moriarty's brother, who's never been on anyone's radar before, suddenly show up wanting to kill...oh." It dawned on him all at once and he felt stupid even as the words died in his mouth. "Revenge."

 

"Indeed, John," Sherlock agreed. "You can be the most amicable human being and still get driven to inhuman acts when someone kills someone you love."

 

John was silent, suddenly thinking back to when Mary died and he'd been terrible to Sherlock. Times when he remembered that made him feel low, like he was dangerously close to scraping rock bottom. He'd been blinded by agony, blinded by the fact that Mary was dead and that it was Sherlock's fault. Sherlock hadn't deserved what he'd done to him. And...god. Now he was recalling the blows that he'd inflicted on his best friend. How his knuckles had slammed into Sherlock, drawing blood. Making bruises. John clenched his hands together, squeezing his eyes shut tightly, willing the images to leave him alone.

 

"John?"

 

John opened his eyes. "I'm fine."

 

But he could see that Sherlock didn't believe him. He was watching John with concern, perhaps knowing what was haunting him, what always haunted him. Once you did something, you could never take it back. It was etched on your personal record forever. John had never regretted anything more in his life. He held himself to a high standard and when that standard was broken beyond repair, he hated himself.

 

"John," Sherlock said again, reaching out to touch John's hand gently. "It's okay."

 

"No," said John. "But it is what it is. Sorry."

 

Sherlock's eyebrows crashed together in his confusion but he made the wise decision not to press the issue. Instead, he looked back to Greg. "You were explaining?"

 

Greg was taken aback for only a moment before launching into his explanation once again. "Yeah, it was out of...revenge. Then when his plan failed, he found out that the imposter had a son. Again, more revenge. You're clocking them up, Sherlock! Anyway, so he hired the brother to kill you. That was the truck incident. And that failed too. Now, we don't know where he is. We don't know if he will try again."

 

"Oh, he'll try again," Sherlock grinned grimly. "He'll most certainly try again. But this time, I'll be ready for it."

 

"But how?" Greg folded his arms, as if already knowing and expecting the answer. He was just playing along.

 

"Because I'm Sherlock Holmes!" Sherlock said grandly, as if that explained everything.

 

"No," said John quietly. "You're an idiot. But you're my idiot."


	16. Epilogue - High Functioning Idiot

“Boring!” Sherlock shouted, smacking his hands together in irritation, making the client sitting in the chair jump with fright. “Of course he’s cheating on you!”

The young woman leaped up from the chair and after shooting both men a tragic look along with some mumbled words about love and misunderstanding, scurried from the flat in a flood of tears. Sherlock leaned back in his chair, cutting John a glance. John shook his head in mild exasperation. Despite everything, matters of the heart still didn’t belong in the client’s chair, according to Sherlock. According to John, they belonged in bed. John laid his notebook and pen aside, eyeing Sherlock. A month had passed since Sherlock had been discharged from the hospital and John had written up a condensed version of the case for his blog. It had already got over ten thousand hits in the last couple of days, making John feel very smug indeed. He’d called it “The Stationmaster’s Revenge”, much to Sherlock’s disgust.

“Do you really have to name them?” he’d demanded around a mouthful of blueberry muffin, curling his bottom lip. John had looked up from his laptop and grinned; they’d certainly had this conversation before!

“People like the names. I’ve told you that,” he’d said, rolling his eyes good naturedly. 

“But really,” Sherlock had scoffed. “The Stationmaster’s Revenge?”

“It works,” John had hit submit and then closed his laptop lid with a snap. “It always does.”

“I’m still trying to figure out how,” Sherlock had shaken his head and John had simply laughed. Now, John tapped the tips of his fingers together, still staring at Sherlock who was staring back, squinting a little.

“What?” Sherlock said eventually, blinking and breaking eye contact briefly. 

“Hmm? Nothing,” John shook his head and then stood up, stretching. “Any more clients today?”

“None that I’m aware of,” Sherlock replied, also standing and looking over to where Rosie was sleeping in her mound of blankets by the fire with Redbeard at her feet and toy Smaug tucked under her arm. 

“Good,” John told him. “We can start redecorating then.”

“What?” Sherlock looked at John blankly. Sighing, John began to explain that they were repainting his old room because a couple of weeks ago, Harry had found her own little flat just down the road and had promised to find a job and stay away from the booze. So, John had decided that Rosie would need her own room soon and that they ought to make his old room a little brighter for their daughter. Sherlock suddenly recalled the conversation and nodded his affirmation. 

“What colours?” he asked. 

“Well, Rosie seemed to like the red when we looked at the colour schemes the other day,” John said, pointing to a small pile of paint tins by the door. “They’re almost the exact same colour as that Smaug toy you got her.”

Sherlock looked very pleased indeed and brushed his shirt lapels in satisfaction. Then, with a delicate little twirl of his feet, he made his way over to the paint tins and picked one up, reading the name.

“Scorching Fire?” he raised an eyebrow. “Who names these? You?”

“Oh do shut up,” John laughed, fetching a paintbrush and throwing it at his boyfriend who, with uncanny skill, caught it and twirled it between his fingers.

“Honestly,” Sherlock grinned and, after making sure Rosie was still fast asleep, they made their way upstairs and pulled on overalls to protect their clothes. John popped the lid on the first tin with a screwdriver and dipped his paintbrush into the pool of red, swirling it around to mix the paint. He pulled it out and then slathered a bright fiery stripe across the dull, grey wall. 

“Light ‘em up,” he chuckled quietly and then they began to paint, the walls morphing from a boring, blank canvas to a bright, fiery landscape. After a while of comfortable silence, John turned to Sherlock, still keeping his brush on the wall.

“What about Moriarty’s brother, then?” he asked.

“What about him?” Sherlock continued painting, sleeves rolled up and the veins on his arms standing out which distracted John just a tiny bit. 

“You said he’d try to kill you again.”

“And he will,” Sherlock nodded firmly. “But I’ll be ready.”

John considered him a moment, cocking his head to one side. “You like it, don’t you?”

“Like what?” Sherlock still wasn’t looking at him, keeping his gaze and most of his concentration on his painting job.

“You like that he’s out there. That there’s a threat on your life. You get off on it,” John tilted his head back to look at the ceiling in mild frustration, wondering why the hell he had to go and fall in love with someone who insisted on risking their life to stave off boredom. 

“Someone has to keep the criminal classes active!” Sherlock slapped his paintbrush on the wall, creating a splatter effect. “I’ll put more bullet holes in the wall otherwise.”

“No,” John shook his head. “It’s the idea that somewhere out there is a mastermind that you can one day thwart.”

Sherlock stopped painting and frowned at John, eyes running over him fondly. “Come again?”

“The looming presence of bad guys?” John winked knowingly. “Come on, I know you. There’s something brewing out there. He’s planning something. Something is coming and you love it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock was feigning innocence, shrugging and turning back to his painting but with a broad grin.

“Yes, you do,” John sighed. “And you know why you love it?”

“Why, John?”

“Because you’re Sherlock damn Holmes,” John said and blew him a kiss. “And you’re a high functioning idiot.”

Sherlock laid down his paintbrush and crossed the floor to where John was standing, reaching out his slender hands to cup John’s face. He closed the space between them and kissed John, lips melting together and bodies touching. Fire ignited in their bones and John returned the kiss, looping his arms around Sherlock’s neck so he could stand on tiptoe, trying to reach his cheek with his lips. 

“You’re right, you know,” Sherlock whispered, brushing John’s nose with his mouth. “I do love it.”

“I know,” John murmured into Sherlock’s chest. Then he smiled a little. “Hey, Sherlock? I love you.”

Sherlock grinned into another kiss. “I love you too. And I’m not afraid to show it, now.”

John pulled out of the kiss, looking up at Sherlock and knowing, for the first time ever, that Sherlock was more comfortable in himself than he’d ever been. 

“You’re not afraid?” John asked quietly, shifting his hands so they were spread across Sherlock’s back.

“I used to be so afraid of showing emotions, John,” Sherlock told him. “Scared they would affect my mental acuity and my ability to decipher a situation. But I’ve come to realize that these emotions, especially love which I was most afraid of, are what make us human, what make us infinitely more alive. And John, I’m alive. And I love you. I’m not afraid anymore.”

John was silent for several moments, taking in all that Sherlock had said. He scooted his hands around Sherlock’s waist and walked them up his chest so John could touch Sherlock’s cheeks. He smiled very fondly and kissed Sherlock’s collarbone. “Once, I was afraid too. But there was something about you that changed me.”

“John,” Sherlock’s voice was very husky and low, caressing John and making him smile. 

“Yes, Sherlock?” John said, nearly whispering.

“Thank you for teaching me that love isn’t something to be afraid of. Thank you for giving me a world I could never have imagined. Thank you for saving me.”

John closed his eyes and rested his head on Sherlock’s chest to hear his swiftly beating heart. “You’re welcome,” he breathed. Then he opened his eyes a little. “But you’re still a high functioning idiot. You’re my high functioning idiot.”

“Of course,” Sherlock smiled. “But I mean it, John.”

“Mean what?” John asked. 

“Thank you.”


End file.
